


On the Ropes

by monicawoe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Artist Steve Rogers, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Canon Compliant, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 1 - Steve takes a life-drawing class, Bucky is his model.</p><p>Part 2- After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, Steve wants to enlist. He asks Bucky to teach him how to box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [counteragent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/counteragent/gifts).



> big thanks to [speranza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speranza) for the beta!

Part 1 ( _Late November, 1941_ ):

 

"I don't need a chaperone," Steve snapped.

Bucky kept his eyes on the stretch of sidewalk ahead of them as they turned the corner onto Tillary. "This neighborhood, this time of night, everybody does."

"The sun's still up!"

"Yeah and by the time you get out of that class it'll be down and then what? You gonna walk the whole way back by yourself?"

Steve rolled his eyes so hard Bucky could practically hear them. "That was the general plan."

"Well that's a stupid plan. You know what happened to the O'Hare brothers last week."

"Oh come on, Tom loves picking fights more than he loves breathing."

"Yeah." Bucky scoffed. "And you'd never do that."

"Never. Plus, I know better than to take a detour through that part of town."

"That part of town? It happened three blocks from here!" Bucky ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, just let me walk with you the first few nights, okay?"

"And what are you gonna do while I'm in the class— sit outside with your thumb up your ass?" Steve took a sharp right down the path that led to the college campus.

Momentary crankiness aside, Steve was still the happiest Bucky had seen him in a good long while. Thanks to Steve's day job drawing for the local paper, he'd gotten into a life drawing class at Long Island University—fee reduced enough that he could afford it. It'd be tighter than usual for them, unless Bucky picked up some overtime shifts, which he would. He'd volunteered every time there was a chance for a few extra hours, but even though he was easily one of the hardest workers at the yard, everyone else was clamoring for extra dough too, and there were loads of others who had the foreman's ear for one reason or another.

"Maybe." A paper pinned to a tree outside the art building snapped in the breeze. _Life model wanted_ Bucky tilted his head, read the rest of the words _men sought for modeling —please see Herman Pfister,_ then snatched the paper from the tree. "Well whaddaya know…"

Steve stopped and looked over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"Another way to pass my time," Bucky said, grinning as he flipped the page over and held it out towards Steve—who squinted and then started shaking his head.

"No, no way. Buck, you can't be serious!"

"Why not? Get paid to stand around for an hour doing nothing? That's like my dream job!"

"Stand around _naked_! This class is about anatomy."

"Oh." Bucky thought for a minute. "So? I'm sure they've got a heater. Pay's good for an hour. I don't mind if some strangers take a gander at my assets."

Steve cupped his hand over his mouth before bringing it slowly back down. He looked even more exasperated than before. "A roomful of strangers and _me_. That's my class."

"You love drawing me! Don't even ask first anymore." A thought crossed Bucky's mind and he spit it out, more to taunt Steve than anything else, "You jealous other people get to draw me for a change?"

Steve scoffed. "Christ, the ego on you. No, of course I'm not jealous."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Guess there is no problem. You probably love the idea of a roomful of people staring at your jewels." Steve shoved the paper back at Bucky and spun on his heel.

Bucky clutched the page to his chest, crinkling it some, then jogged to catch up with Steve who was walking faster than he'd ever seen him. "I don't know about love, but it don't bother me none." He caught up with Steve by the door to the school, and clapped him on the shoulder. "You okay?"

Steve looked up at Bucky as he yanked on the handle. "Peachy."

#

The instructor, Mr. Pfister, was a small man with thick glasses and a gap between his two front teeth. He lowered his glasses and smiled politely when Bucky introduced himself. "Have you ever posed before?" he asked.

"Sure," Bucky grinned. "My buddy Steve here draws me all the time. Says I have a good face." He could feel Steve's eyes glaring a hole through his skin.

"Excellent," said the professor. "What marvelous timing. Our usual, Mr. Barrett, broke his ankle. I'm afraid he won't be back for the next eight weeks. Longer perhaps. Can you sit for us tonight?"

"Sure! I can sit, I can stand." Bucky cocked an eyebrow. "I can even do a decent headstand."

Somewhere behind him, Steve huffed in annoyance.

"That won't be necessary," the man said chuckling. He held out his hand to shake Bucky's. "What splendid timing, now Marguerite won't have to work the full hour. She'll be thrilled."

"Marguerite?" Bucky asked.

"Yes, our model for the female form. Wonderful woman."

Bucky wondered if they'd be standing on the small stage together and suddenly all kinds of poses flickered through his mind. Marguerite was a French name, wasn't it? And he'd heard about French girls.

"Ah, here she is now," the professor said.

The door opened behind them. Bucky's neck twinged from turning so quickly. Marguerite walked on stage, and slipped out of her robe. She was easily old enough to be Bucky's grandmother, and had distressingly similar hair, so he turned quickly back to professor.

"I'll show you to the changing room. You can wait there and I'll tell you when to come out." The professor slid his glasses back up his nose again and frowned. "The robes might be a bit small for you. Our last male model was built differently."

#

The storeroom that doubled as a changing room held thirty eight bottles of paints, three small cans of turpentine, nine boxes of pencils, and four boxes of brushes. Bucky knew this because he'd counted them all several times, for lack of anything else to do as he waited. Next time he'd bring a book or two. Maybe one of those issues of _Astounding_ Rebecca had bought him for his birthday. He glanced out the hallway again, hoping for some sign of Marguerite or Pfister.

He studied the little list of suggested poses the professor had left for him. Back to the audience; side-view leaning with hand on stool; facing the audience. _Heh, wouldn't that be something, getting Steve to draw him in all his naked glory._ Bucky's skin flushed warm at the thought and his stomach fluttered with something he couldn't quite place.

"Mr. Barnes," said Mr. Pfister's voice from somewhere just outside the changing room. "We're ready for you."

Bucky stood up quickly, knocking over the empty bucket he'd been using as a seat. He straightened out the robe which was indeed far too short— it came just barely to mid-thigh. His skin was covered in goose-bumps from waiting in the cool room, and he was looking forward to getting back to the classroom, which had felt significantly warmer.

"Two poses. The first will be two minutes, the second twenty minutes." Pfister looked up at Bucky. "Did you review the list?"

Bucky nodded.

"A profile would be great to start, I think."

"Okay." Profile— so he'd be able to shift his legs or arms and do…something. Something interesting. Maybe pose like one of those marble statues Steve had spent so much time studying at the museum.

Pfister pushed the door open. "I'll prompt you when it's time to change position."

The classroom had far more students than when Bucky and Steve had first arrived. Over a dozen altogether, Bucky noted as he made his way to the little platform in the front of the room. He kept his steps short, since the robe didn't offer a whole lot in the way of coverage to begin with, and climbed the steps nice and slow. No point in showing off the goods before he was told to. There was a stool on the stage, along with a small table with a glass of water and a folded blanket on the floor. Pfister cleared his throat. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Barnes. He'll be doing two poses tonight. The first will be two minutes, followed by a three minute break and the second— the final pose for tonight will be twenty minutes. For the first, we'll be focusing on profile. Make note of the shadows, especially by the neck and hips."

It took Bucky's brain a minute to catch up with the instructor's words. He looked towards him, questioningly.

"Whenever you're ready, Mr. Barnes," Pfister said. A side pose please."

Bucky's throat went oddly dry as he shrugged out of the robe and set it on the stool. He moved towards the center of the stage like the notes had said, and tried to relax. His legs felt too long and awkward, so he bent his outer knee a bit, and tried to remember how his arm hung naturally. It felt stiff and unnatural. He was nervous.

There was no reason for him to be nervous. He didn't know anybody in the room besides Steve, and Steve had seen him naked plenty. He'd seen Steve a few times too, though he'd always covered up right quick when Bucky came in. Not that he had any reason to. Steve was self-conscious about his thin frame, complained about it more often lately—especially in the summer when the heat had been so bad shirts were out of the question as far as Bucky was concerned. And yet, Steve insisted on wearing an undershirt the whole day, saying, "Nobody wants to see ribs."

Bucky himself had never had trouble putting on muscle, especially these last few years where he'd gotten a job that had him lugging hunks of metal from one end of the navy yard to the other all day long. By the time the air had turned colder again this year, he'd found that nearly all his shirts were too tight, which was a problem because they flat out didn't have the funds to get him a new wardrobe. Luckily, his sister knew her way around a needle better than he did, and worked her magic, opening seams and darts, and adding side panels enough to give his sleeves and chest a little more breathing room.

Maybe he'd have enough left over for a new shirt after a few weeks of this new gig, or maybe he could get more overtime after all, if he—

Hadn't two minutes gone by yet? Bucky's eyes darted to the right quickly, searching for the clock at the top of the room, but he couldn't quite see it without moving his head, and he had to stay still. Still like one of those statues at the museum Steve had spent hours studying. They were nice statues, in all honesty. Made of marble with eerie, empty eyes and faces too perfect to be real.

Steve had done a damn fine job drawing them too, even the features in their perfect faces. The students' pencils scraped against paper and Bucky strained to see if he could pick out Steve's elbow from behind the easel.

"Thank you Mr. Barnes, you can relax."

Bucky's hand reached for the robe, and then he thought better of it. Was it worth it to get dressed for a three minute break? He could get a sip of water—maybe that'd help the dryness in his throat. He reached for the glass of water, glanced over at the robe and then decided maybe he should put it on after all.

"Excellent work, Mr. Young," the instructor said as he passed through the rows of easels.

Bucky turned and looked surreptitiously out at the students, until he recognized Steve's knee jutting out from behind an easel on the far left of the room. He took a step back, and then another, trying to catch a glimpse of Steve's face and then nearly tripped over the stool but caught himself, and sat on the stool instead, in what he was sure didn't look half as dignified a manner as he would've hoped.

He considered staying on the stool for the next pose. The robe underneath him was soft and he could maybe prop his arm against the rim of he stool, do something _dynamic_ like lift his arm, or prop his leg up on the rail. He looked down at his bare feet, and wished he'd trimmed his toenails that Sunday like he usually did. Hopefully nobody had eyes good enough to see how jagged they were.

"Mr. Barnes. Twenty minutes please. A seated pose will be just fine, but if you could turn just a bit so we can see your back."

Bucky stood, shocked by how on the spot he felt, and repositioned himself until his back was facing the class. He tried to figure out where to put his feet and finally settled for one foot on the rung, one on the ground, and bent his arm, propping his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his hand.

"Ah, excellent," Mr. Pfister said. "Here, focus on the curvature of the back and shoulders."

The scratching of pencils picked up again and Bucky let his mind drift, tried to focus on keeping his body still. He soon regretted choosing to lean his chin on his hand. His shoulder started to ache, and he wanted to move, just an inch, but knew that'd throw everything off. He didn't want to blow it his first night posing.

He tried to think about other things. Like what he had to do when they got back home. His work-shirts really needed washing, but that wasn't happening tonight. He had another one that had a small tear in the back, but he could fix it up easy. Just had to figure out where the sewing kit had gone.

Somebody coughed—a familiar cough—Steve's cough, followed by another and another. Bucky locked his limbs down tight, forced himself still to keep from turning around. His reflex was to go to Steve's side, to make sure he wasn't about to have an attack and what if he was and had he even brought his medicine? But there was no more coughing, and Steve was already muttering a muted apology.

How many minutes had gone by? Surely at least ten. His toes were starting to go numb where they were pushed against the rail of the stool and he desperately wanted to stretch his legs. Who knew sitting still could be so tiresome?

"Good attention to detail, but try to see the overall shape as well," said the teacher's voice. What kind of detail did he mean? Was Pfister talking to Steve? What detail had Steve focused on? Was it his back, or his shoulders, or the curve of his—?

"Thank you Mr. Barnes. That will be all."

Bucky stood, had to fight back the temptation to shake his legs or rub his hands over his backside to get feeling back into his limbs. And all he'd done was sit.

He slipped into the robe, chanced a peek over his shoulder, and saw the top of Steve's head, bent over and fiddling with his knapsack, packing his pencils away. He waited for Steve to look up, wanted to signal him he'd be back out in a few minutes, but Steve was taking his sweet time, and it felt awkward just standing there waiting for him. Bucky's feet tingled as he stepped off the platform and walked to the back hall.

It only took him three minutes to get changed back into his clothes, maybe less. He left the robe hanging on the hook of the storage closet room and walked back into the classroom. Steve was talking to the teacher, who was busy pointing at Steve's canvas, with a slight smile on his face.

A powerful need to see what Steve had drawn came over Bucky and he walked towards the two men, forced his hands into his pockets in an effort to look casual.

Steve looked up at his approach and his expression closed off instantly. He opened the clamps on his easel and removed the page the teacher had been commenting on, then began hurriedly rolling it. Just before Bucky reached them, Steve had shoved the sketch into the hard tube he used to store his paper in.

"Mr. Barnes." Pfister held his hand out to Bucky. "For a novice, you did quite well. We'll see you Thursday, yes?"

Bucky was still trying to figure out why Steve had been in such a rush to hide his sketches. Had something not turned out right? Did he not want Bucky to see? And if so, why the hell not? A man should be able to look at his own portraits.

"Oh yeah. Yeah, sure," Bucky said, shaking Pfister's hand.

"I'll have your pay ready on Thursday as well, after the session."

"That's great. Thank you," Bucky tried to keep his focus on the instructor, but his eyes kept drifting to Steve, who was trying to buckle his drawing-tube under the flap of his knapsack. The straps weren't quite long enough. Bucky crouched down next to Steve and reached out to try to help.

Steve batted his hand away. "I got it."

"Okay…" Bucky stood up again, confused. Steve sounded agitated.

"Well, I'll see you both on Thursday then," said Pfister, unaware of the tension. He waved a friendly goodbye and moved across the room to another student who was waiting for him.

Steve managed to get the tube under one strap, mostly, propped it so it lay crookedly on his shoulder and made his way to the door.

Bucky followed after him and pulled his hat on as they walked outside. The wind was brutally cold. He flipped his collar up and tucked his chin down. Steve had done the same. He was uncharacteristically quiet; usually Steve got all riled up after artsy stuff.

"So, good class?" Bucky asked, after another three blocks of silence.

"It was all right."

"Pfister seems nice."

"Yeah, he's swell."

Bucky's fingers were turning to icicles, even in his pockets, and he brought them up to his mouth to thaw them with his breath, then rubbed them together until they tingled. Steve tucked his chin back down into his jacket as they pressed on up Flatbush Ave.

Something about Steve's dour expression kept drawing Bucky's attention, so much so that he nearly tripped over a pothole when they turned onto York.

By the time they reached the door, Bucky's face felt frozen solid. Steve fiddled with the keys a bit, fingers clearly just as stiff as Bucky's despite the fact that he'd worn thick gloves all the way home. The apartment felt gloriously warm in comparison, and Bucky went right to the radiator, opening the valve as much as he could.

His stomach rumbled as he stood, pulling him towards the pantry. His body had already burned through the dinner they'd had before the class. They didn't have a whole lot on hand, but he'd squirreled away a bag of sunflower seeds on the top shelf. They'd do for tonight. He grabbed a small bowl from the counter and carried it with him.

Steve was sitting on the couch, pulling off his shoes when Bucky came back in. He slid over at Bucky's approach, giving him room to sit.

"Want some?" Bucky asked holding out the bag. He set the bowl on his leg, balancing it with practiced ease.

"Nah," Steve yawned and leaned back into the couch, closing his eyes.

"Sleep already?"

"Long day."

"Yeah I should get some shut-eye too, just still kinda revved," Bucky grabbed a few more seeds from the bag and deposited the shells into the bowl.

"I can head to the bedroom, if you—"

"Nah, you stay. It's twenty degrees warmer in here."

"Don't have to go yet," Steve gave him a smile. "I still have to change anyway. Not gonna sleep in my trousers like some uncivilized folk like to do."

"Uncivilized, eh?" Bucky cocked an eyebrow as he split open another seed with his teeth. "Yeah, well we can't all be high society artists." His eyes fell on Steve's roll of sketches, laying on the table. "Speaking of…can I see?"

Steve sat up and grabbed for the roll of drawings, but instead of handing them to Bucky he stuck them behind the couch, out of reach.

"They're not that good."

"Oh?"

Steve stood and crossed the floor to the bedroom. "Yeah, you know— inexperienced model, real green, couldn't hold a pose to save his life."

"That a fact?"

"Yeah, terrible," Steve continued, from inside the bedroom. "It's like they just pull them in off the streets nowadays."

"Terrible."

"Yup."

Bucky ate another few seeds and spit the shells into his bowl. When Steve emerged again, wearing his pajamas—or rather, Bucky's old pajamas that were far too big on him— Bucky took careful aim and spit a sunflower seed shell directly at Steve's cheek.

"Gross," Steve said, rubbing his cheek in exaggerated disgust as he sat back down on the couch.

"You're just jealous of my aim."

Steve yawned, and started to shift on the couch, pushing at Bucky's legs with toes so icy-cold, Bucky could feel them through the fabric of his pants and Steve's holey socks.

Bucky grabbed the heavy blanket from their tattered armchair and threw it at Steve, who made a very half-hearted attempt to catch it, then shifted until he was laying flat on the couch. He was exactly the right size for it, feet an inch short of the edge. Steve always slept on the couch, even though Bucky'd argued plenty of times that they could both fit in the bed comfortably. The couch was the one piece of furniture they'd salvaged from Steve's old place after his Ma had passed. "Well, I'm gonna hit the sack," Bucky said. "Read a bit."

Steve yawned again, and his eyelids were more shut than open. "Be warmer here with me," he mumbled. His eyes fluttered open, he stared up at Bucky and his cheeks flushed. "Night, Buck."

"Night." Bucky turned off the small lamp on the nightstand and crossed the kitchen floor to the door that led to their small bedroom. He glanced back over his shoulder at Steve, already snoring, before opening the door. In the snowy moonlight, Steve looked as surreally beautiful as those statues in the museum.

#

After an hour or more of trying to read a story from _Astounding_ without retaining a damn word, Bucky gave up and turned off his reading lamp. His mind kept wandering back to the class. He'd had a room full of eyes staring at him, but the only ones that mattered were Steve's. He was tempted to sneak back out into the living room, grab Steve's drawing-tube and steal a glance at the sketches. But despite being nearly deaf in one ear, Steve would hear him—he was a light sleeper, and even though Bucky was damn good at being stealthy, their floor was mostly creaky wood this time of year. He couldn't risk it. If Steve caught him, he'd be furious.

The windowless dark of the small bedroom just made Bucky more awake, and he started to count sheep, then cows, then the Dodgers roster by number.

When sleep finally pulled him under, his dreams were filled with the sound of Steve's pencil scratching against paper.

#

The workday had been pretty humdrum until around lunch, when Fred Cooper started mouthing off at Tony Perelli. Bucky heard their raised voices even before he got out of the supply house, wheelbarrow full of rivets and sheet metal.

"Shut your mouth, Fred!" Perelli growled as he lunged forward again and landed a sloppy punch on Fred's jaw. Fred didn't look fazed in the slightest. He was a big guy, easily thirty pounds heavier than the smaller Italian. "Make me," Cooper said, grinning.

Bucky set down his wheelbarrow and walked over to the men. They were right by dry dock four, standing in the criss-cross of shadows cast by the girders overhead. A few others had gathered, drawn to the escalating voices like sharks to chum.

"Cool your jets, boys," Bucky said, raising his hands, palms open. "Foster sees this, he'll dock you both."

Perelli threw another punch, grazing Fred's ribs with his knuckles.

Cooper leered, baring teeth and wound up his arm, ready to take out Perelli's nose. Bucky had seen him fight before—had _fought_ him before, beat him in a local boxing match at Richie's a year ago. Cooper wasn't the fastest, but he was strong. He'd bruised Bucky's ribs up for a good week and a half. So, cursing at himself, Bucky intervened, stepped in close, grabbed Perelli by the shoulders and yanked him out of the way before Cooper could land the punch.

Cooper's fist hit nothing but air and stumbled, his own inertia nearly sending him to his knees. He whipped his head around and glared when he saw what had happened. "Damn it, Barnes. This don't concern you," he spat at Bucky's feet.

Bucky's fist clenched with the desire to knock teeth loose, but he held back. It was Thursday— he had to pose for Steve later, and the last thing that art crowd would want to draw was a bunch of bruises. "Let it go, Fred. Foster's already got it in his head he needs to lay someone off. You keep this up, you're volunteering."

"Get lost, you crumb," Cooper snarled. "Foster ain't here. If he was, he'd be havin' Perelli dragged off to the slammer."

Perelli's eyes darted from Bucky to Cooper and back. "It ain't true," he said. "I'm no thief."

"You catch him stealing?" Bucky asked Cooper.

"Sure did."

"Liar!" Perelli snapped. He tried to lunge forward again, but Bucky kept him steady. He outweighed Perelli by a good twenty pounds. Maybe more. Perelli was just two inches taller than Steve, though not nearly as frail.

"Did you see him stealing?" Bucky asked Cooper again. He looked at the others watching. "Any of you?"

Cooper's jaw twitched. "No, but I know it was him."

"How?"

"Only people who have keys to that room are me, Smithy, Gregor and Foster."

"What do you think he stole?"

"Bottle of gin Foster keeps in the bottom drawer."

Bucky blinked. "Sorry, my ears must be clogged. You couldn't possibly have said what I think I just heard. Want to repeat that?"

"Bottle of gin," Cooper said, voice dropping low. He was probably trying to sound intimidating. But Bucky didn't scare easy. He'd fought guys twice as thick—in brain and girth—and won.

"You're mad because you can't find a bottle of gin that belongs to Foster? What were you doing, guarding it?"

"Yeah," Cooper licked his lips. "Routine quality inspection."

"Ah." Bucky gave Perelli a pat on the shoulder as he let him go. "Well then, there's only one thing we can do." He stepped in front of Perelli, blocking him from view, and put his hand against Cooper's sweat-drenched chest. "Tell Foster exactly what happened. Once he hears how Perelli kept you from doing your civic duty, he'll have no choice but to fire him."

"Cooper! Perelli! Barnes!" yelled a voice. Foster was jogging towards them, handlebar mustache wagging as he did. The man got more rotund each year, which belied the low profits he claimed were keeping them all from getting raises. "Far as I know, lunch bell sounded over twenty minutes ago." He took a step closer and narrowed his eyes as he drew up to his full height—still nearly a foot shorter than Bucky. "Barnes, I expect it from these other two galoots, but you?" He shook his head.

"Just a misunderstanding, sir," Barnes said. "Cooper thought Perelli insulted his mother."

"Shut your trap, Barnes!" Cooper snapped, rubbing at his reddened cheek.

"Hm," Foster let out a harumph that made his mustache shake. He looked at the men and sighed. "All of you, head to the Hammerhead."

Cooper cursed under his breath.

The Hammerhead was the toughest build on the lot these days. Huge beams of metal, endless tons to lift. Of course, once it was finished, it could do the lifting for them, but that was besides the point. Until it was done, they had to assemble it piece by piece. And it was a monstrosity.

Bucky rolled his shoulders back and wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

#

 

Their apartment smelled ten times better than it normally did when Bucky walked in after work. Steve had taken the last of the pork they had in the icebox, added potatoes and the other vegetables they'd gotten earlier that week and had made some kind of stew out of it. Bucky's mouth watered as he made his way to the kitchen, led by his nose. "Mm. I knew there was a reason I moved in with you."

"Your Ma's a way better cook than I am."

"True, but here I only have to share with you." He leaned over the pot and sniffed, and his stomach rumbled audibly. It'd been a hard afternoon after the incident at lunch. He'd carted easily twice the loads he usually had to, and the beams they'd had to mount to the Hammerhead had been obscenely large.

"Stop drooling into the pot and go get cleaned up, it'll be ready in ten minutes." Steve moved to the sink and turned on the faucet.

Bucky cracked his neck and inhaled the scent of the stew again, deeply. "Smells ready now."

"You smell ready to knock me over."

"Then move so I can use the sink!" Bucky said, nudging his shoulder against Steve's.

"Can't have this one, I'm using it to clean the bowls which _somebody_ didn't wash this morning." Steve nodded his chin at the door. "Use the bathroom."

"Fine," Bucky said. "Since you can't handle my manly musk."

"That ain't musk, it's stale sweat."

"Hard day's work. You know you can't actually move stuff by batting your eyelashes at it." On second thought, Steve had some real nice lashes. He probably could. Before that line of thought could keep going, Bucky turned on his heel and walked out the back door to the bathroom down the hall. There was a line, like there always was this time of night, and he nodded a greeting to their neighbor, Mrs. Potts.

"Good evening, James," she said, smiling. "How is Steven doing? Is he still ill?" Mrs. Potts had brought them more casserole and pie than most men could stomach in the weeks after Steve's mother had passed. Luckily, Bucky's appetite had compensated, though even he wouldn't have survived one more day of pie as breakfast.

"He's much better. Barely a sniffle, now."

"That's good. Poor boy. How's he holding up?"

"We're just fine, Beatrice, thanks." Bucky smiled. The bathroom door clicked open and Mr. Peterson stepped out.

"Go ahead, James," Mrs. Potts said. "I'll need a fair bit longer than you."

"Thanks for that," Bucky said, and dashed to the bathroom.

He stripped out of his shirt and washed himself in a hurry, shuddering only slightly at the icy water. The hot water never lasted through the early evening rush. Glancing in the mirror, he gave himself a quick once over. His shoulders ached and his arms looked almost swollen, an after effect of all the extra loads he'd had to lift today. He wondered, in a floaty hunger-induced sort of way if that'd show during class. He hoped it would. Brenda Jenkins had told him once, amidst all kinds of other dirty whispers, that the broader his shoulders got, the more she got to kiss. Maybe Steve felt the same way. And where had _that_ thought come from?

As he rinsed himself off with soap and water, Bucky thought he should probably pay Brenda a visit again sometime soon. He hadn't felt the need to see her since he'd moved in with Steve.

Wiping himself with his towel he paused for a moment, flexing his right arm and wondered if he should try a pose like that tonight. A short one maybe, considering the way his arm was shaking already. He wouldn't be able to hold his arms up and still for two solid minutes. But more importantly, he didn't want Steve to get bored.

#

The classroom felt warmer than usual. Bucky had started to sweat during the first pose, even though he'd had the ingenious idea of leaning his hands against the wall, which had made holding the pose a cinch.

Pfister called for a break.

Lost in thought, Bucky slipped into his robe and tied it closed. He'd gotten stuck on thoughts of Brenda, or rather, the realization that he hadn't seen her in months. Not since he'd moved in with Steve. He hadn't even thought of her until tonight. It's not like they'd ever been exclusive, she was more like somebody he came back to, and she never asked for anything more. But now the thought of going to see her made him feel…weird. Like he'd be doing Steve wrong if he did. Not like it was any business of Steve's really. Bucky'd tried his damnedest to find Steve a girl. It just never worked out, which he couldn't quite wrap his head around. Steve was the best guy he knew. The best. He was smart, and honest, and even though Bucky'd known him since he could remember, Bucky still thought Steve had the greatest smile he'd ever seen. True and warm like the afternoon sun.

And right now, that smile was shining full force at a man next to Steve, a class-mate, about their age, who was laughing at something Steve had said. Bucky took a step to the left, and looked surreptitiously over his shoulder, trying to catch Steve's eyes, but Steve wasn't looking his way. Not even a little.

Granted, it was the break between poses; Steve probably had to look away from the stage or he'd get a crick in his neck. But the way Steve was smiling at some stranger was making Bucky's blood boil a little, though he didn't know why. It was good Steve was happy. Laughs were few and far between since Steve's Ma had passed. This art class was just what he needed, after all. Maybe he'd make some new friends—ones more on Steve's level— less simple than Bucky.

"Twenty minutes, Mr. Barnes," Pfister said, and his voice sounded far away. Bucky kept his focus on the floor of the stage, didn't look over to Steve or any of the other artists. He'd been thinking about what to do, knew exactly how he could get Steve's attention and hold it, but if he caught Steve looking, he might change his mind.

There was a small blanket in the corner, which Pfister had said he could use to cover the floor if he wanted to lay down. So he did just that—spread the blanket out lengthwise. Then he slipped out of his robe, dropped it casually on the stool and sat down on the floor, then lowered his back to the floor. Keeping his knees bent, he thought for a moment, of Steve's smile, and how it felt when it was turned on him, and let his outer leg slowly drop. Bucky's arms settled comfortably by his sides, and he forced himself to relax, kept his eyes looking up at the ceiling. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the sound of Steve clearing his throat.

Self-satisfaction swept through Bucky like a tide. He'd gotten Steve's attention at least. Now he just had to hold it, for twenty minutes.

A memory came to him, unbidden—Steve's face the first time he'd opened the bedroom door on Bucky in a compromising position. And with that memory, Bucky's cock stirred—the last thing he needed with the whole room's attention on him.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bucky tried to think of something else, anything else—the last time he'd been to the dentist, or that horrible day a few months back when the rivet gun had jammed at work. But his mind kept drifting back to that night, and Steve's face at the bedroom door.

_It had been the middle of summer, so hot that Bucky had kicked the sheets to the foot of the bed. He had his hand around himself and wasn't all too far away from release, when the door opened and Steve stared at him, stared at his hand, and what he held in his hand, and didn't move, for a good solid fifteen seconds. It was like he'd been frozen stiff. And Bucky, jerk that he was, had kept going, focused solely on Steve's pale face—the high color in his cheeks. But then, Steve had snapped out of whatever trance he'd been in, stuttered something unintelligible and backed out of the room, shutting the door so hard it bounced. Bucky's eyes had stayed locked on that door long after Steve left, long after a muffled moan escaped him._

Bucky kept his eyes on the ceiling, reminded himself that he was naked, and tried, hard as he could, not to think about that night for a second longer. Otherwise he'd have to keep a whole different kind of pose for twenty minutes, and that'd end up torturous.

 _Breathe in, breathe out._ Bucky kept his breaths shallow, making sure the visible movements were minimal. He let his vision unfocus and with it his thoughts. He was getting paid tonight and those two dollars weren't going to cover everything he'd like but they'd definitely help. Given the events of the day he certainly wasn't going to hold out hope that Foster would give him an extra shift anytime soon. But there were other things he could do. A match at Richie's could get him a sawbuck if he won. He hadn't been feeling the need to punch things as often lately, but that didn't mean he wasn't still good at it.

If he could pull in an extra twenty and Steve got his usual fifty a month they'd have enough to cover the rent and food and his medicine. Everything was getting more expensive lately, or maybe he just noticed it more because he had to pay for all his own groceries. Back at his folks' place they had a garden—a small one with tomatoes, cabbage and potatoes in the back. And somehow they'd always had enough food, despite him being one of four kids.

But after moving in with Steve, groceries were something they had to keep a constant eye on. They'd struck deals with some of the locals—the butcher had taken to setting aside less-than-prime cuts for them for half off, because Steve's Ma had been a good customer for years.

And lucky for the both of them, Steve was a whiz at making things edible. Either that or Bucky was just hungry enough that he thought everything tasted good. Likely it was a combination of both. The last year, especially, he'd been glad for their arrangement. His appetite was greater than it'd ever been, spurred on by the heavy lifting he had to do at the navy yard. He'd signed on with the hopes of becoming a loftsman but they needed more heavy lifters and fewer brains, so he ended up a shipfitter.

And Steve had noticed how all that lifting was changing Bucky's body, though he hadn't commented on it until that one summer afternoon.

_Bucky pulled his shirt off as soon as he got to their block, the heat so intolerable he couldn't stand the sweat soaked fabric a second longer. He opened their door, walked into the blissfully cool living room and found Steve staring at him from the couch, pencil frozen mid stroke._

_"Geez, Buck," Steve said._

_"Huh?" Bucky threw his shirt at the couch._

_Normally that would've made Steve furious, and sent him on a tirade about Bucky's disregard for courtesy and hygiene and would it kill him to pick up his socks, but instead Steve just swallowed and said, "Guess that's where all those third helpings are going."_

_Once his gears clicked and he realized Steve was admiring his torso, Bucky smiled sheepishly. "Foster stuck me on the Hammerhead today again, and he's been having me run point on the crane hauls."_

_"Crane hauls?"_

_"Heavy crates, wrap a bunch of chain around them. We're building a crane, but until that's up, we gotta do it ourselves to build the darn thing. Takes ten guys to haul the crates up to the deck. Guy at the back, you'd think, would get the bulk of the weight, but that ain't how it is, guy in the front's gotta keep the thing steady. "_

_"And he's having you do that."_

_"Me and Cooper. But Cooper's sloppy."_

_Steve gave Bucky a once-over again and then went back to sketching. "You look like you're from Krypton."_

_Bucky laughed it off. "Don't worry Steve, some day it'll happen to you too. You'll probably end up taller than me."_

_"What planet have you been living on?" Steve rolled his eyes._

_"Earth, mostly. Been feeling a little homesick though. Krypton's real nice this time of year."_

_"Krypton exploded, you meatball."_

"And thank you, Mr. Barnes," Pfister said.

Bucky came back to himself, blinked, like he'd been sleeping with his eyes open. He turned his head, rolled up onto his side and found Steve staring at him, hand still lifted, still moving. His lips were pursed, expression dark, like when he was thinking about something awful. It wasn't a look Bucky ever expected to see turned on him and it sobered him up quick. He pushed himself to sitting and reached for his robe, slipping it on before he stood.

By the time he turned around again, Steve was rapidly packing his things into his bag.

#

After rushing to get dressed, Bucky hurried back out to the classroom. Pfister stopped him just long enough to hand him an envelope with his pay. "Thank you," Bucky said and made to go after Steve, who'd just disappeared out the door. Maybe he was going to wait out front.

"See you next week?" Pfister asked.

"Yeah, sure," Bucky said, walking as quickly as he could without breaking out into a run. Even so, he got to the exit just as it fell shut on him. Steve was already outside, already on the sidewalk, like he was in a hurry. "What's the rush?" Bucky said as he shoved the door open again.

Finally, Steve came to a stop. "Cold out. Didn't feel like hanging around." He started walking again as soon as Bucky caught up to him, but didn't make eye contact.

Something was wrong. He could tell from the set of Steve's jaw, from the way he avoided looking his way. He was upset about something. Or maybe he wasn't feeling well. Bucky waited until they'd turned the corner to ask, "What's wrong?"

Steve's lips twitched, like he was going to say something, but thought better of it.

"Was nice and warm in there, I thought. Sitting still's actually not that easy. Well not on the stool anyway, maybe next time I'll—"

"Maybe next time you could try being less of a show off," Steve said, voice brittle as ice.

For a moment, Bucky lost his ability to speak. Then he swallowed past the hard lump in his throat. "Hey, what's your problem? We talked about this."

"Yeah, we did." Steve waited by the street corner as a car drove past, then started to cross the street.

Bucky narrowly avoided grabbing Steve by the wrist. He reached for the empty air instead, then put his hand back into his pocket. "Did I do something to make you sore?"

Steve scoffed. "You mean besides signing up to model for a class just because you refuse to leave me alone for a few hours? Because you won't give me any breathing room!"

"Breathing room?" Bucky's heart sped up. "It's not about the class— I just don't want you getting jumped on the way home."

"That's a load of hooey and you know it."

"No it ain't. Why would you think that? I just want you to be safe."

"No, you just want to be everywhere I am, do everything I do. Like we don't already spend enough time together—every morning, every night. The only time I get to be away from you is when you're at work."

Bucky stopped in his tracks. "You want to get away from me?" He forced out the rest of the words, the question he knew he had to ask, "Want me to move out?"

Steve stopped and turned back to him, exhaling white breath into the air. "No, Buck, of course not, I just…" He shook his head. "Just forget I said anything, okay?"

And he tried. He did. But when they got to York Street and Steve turned the corner towards their apartment, Bucky's feet refused to follow. Something petulant and ugly curdled in his gut.

Steve got halfway down the block before he noticed Bucky wasn't behind him, and turned back, with a questioning look.

"Gonna go get a drink," Bucky said. He didn't make much effort to keep the anger out of his voice.

"Buck—"

"Don't wait up."

Steve's mouth opened, but he snapped it shut again, fury flickering across his features.

Before he could say anything stupid, Bucky turned around and walked back to Flatbush.

#

The money Bucky had gotten from Pfister came in real handy at Andy's Tavern. He shelled out for whiskey a step better than the usual rotgut they served, and after his third, he felt pleasantly warmer, even if he hadn't calmed down completely yet. His shoulder blades still felt tight, and more than anything, he wanted to throw a punch, but not here. Andrew, the barkeep, had a zero tolerance policy for that kinda stuff. Plus, Brenda was waiting tables tonight. She'd given him a friendly wave when he'd come in, but hadn't said a word, which was for the best. Bucky didn't know what he had to say past, _'How've you been?'_

"Well would ya look at that?" said an all too familiar voice from his left. "It's Barnes the peacekeeper." Fred Cooper raised his glass in a mock toast.

"Sure is," said Pete Flanagan from the stool next to him.

 _Perfect,_ Bucky thought grimly. He raised his glass back to them silently and prayed for patience.

"So you know, funniest thing. After punching out tonight, Foster calls me in," Cooper set his glass down with more force than needed. "Says he don't need me for a full shift tomorrow, or next week. Weird—see, normally he offers me extra shifts, and now I don't even got a full week coming." His eyes narrowed, making them look even beadier than usual. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Nope," Bucky shrugged. "I didn't see him or Gregor today. Left at five on the nose. Had to get right home for dinner."

"Home to your pretty wife?" Pete asked, taking a swig of his beer.

"Nah," Cooper said, mouth curving into a leer. "Ain't you heard? Barnes here shacked up with a charity case friend of his instead."

The statement was so ludicrous it took Bucky a minute to process what Cooper had said. "What? Who told you that?"

"I heard you talk to Perelli at lunch. Always going on about your buddy Steve who's sick all the time." He finished his drink on one long swallow and slammed the glass back down. "Boo hoo."

"Steve ain't no charity case." Bucky kept his tone calm, despite the surge of anger that had set his heart pounding.

"Yeah? What is he then? Half-brother or something?"

Andrew came by then, barkeeper instincts sensing tension, and Bucky motioned towards him to settle his tab.

"Ninety cents," Andrew said catching Bucky's eyes. He knew something was off.

And Bucky respected Andrew enough to keep him out of it. No reason to ruin the night for any of the other patrons, or Andrew himself. Bucky put a dollar on the counter, downed the last few drops of his whiskey, and stood

"Well, I hope your pal Steve makes it through the winter," Cooper said. "It's been an icy one. Be a real shame if he slipped and broke his neck."

Bucky froze in his steps.

"'Course then you wouldn't need any extra shifts no more." Cooper added. His voice was quiet, but he might as well have been shouting it in Bucky's ear.

He turned back to the two men, stepped close to Fred, leaned down next to his ear and said, calmly as he could, "You lay a finger on him, and so help me, I'll break _your_ neck."

Cooper stood to his full height, a good two inches taller than Bucky. "That a threat, Barnes?"

"You tell me." It was physically exhausting keeping his fists by his side, when all he wanted was to slam Cooper's nose inside his skull.

"You knuckleheads gonna be a problem?" Andrew asked, walking over, brow furrowed. Brenda was watching them from the kitchen door, gave Bucky a thoughtful look, and then left, door swinging shut behind her.

"No problem." Cooper held his hands up, palms out and shook his head. "We were just heading outside, weren't we, James?"

Bucky nodded and turned on his heel, heading towards the rear exit. The alley in the back was out of view of the street. He'd gone out there with Brenda enough times to know. Last time she'd shoved him against the wall—mouthed at his neck hard enough to leave a mark. But that was nearly a year ago.

The door opened and shut again as Cooper and Pete followed him outside and down the stairs. Bucky turned to face them as soon as they were in the alley. "You know, Fred, you really should learn how to shut your trap in civilized society."

"Yeah?" Cooper's eyebrows shot up, and his grin widened. "Why don't you teach me how?" He crowded Bucky's space and pushed him, ungently.

Dropping his coat, Bucky clenched his fists. "If you insist." Slowed by drink, Cooper telegraphed even more than usual. Bucky saw his punch coming and ducked easily, coming back up with an uppercut to the taller man's jaw.

Staggering to a halt a foot away, Cooper shook himself, shrugging off the impact like a cup of ice water. He brought his meaty hand crashing down again towards Bucky's face.

Bucky dodged the blow, but only by a fraction of an inch—too close, too slow. He countered with a hook to the ribs, but all Cooper did was grunt.

"Are you three lost?" asked Brenda, from up on the steps. "This doesn't appear to be a boxing ring."

Her voice drew Bucky's attention fully, gave him pause. She was frowning down at them and something about her look made him flush with shame. Cooper's fist hit him smack in the kisser.

"Frederick Cooper!" Brenda snapped. "Take your drunken self somewhere else this instant."

Bucky rubbed at his numb jaw, and his thumb came away bloody. Great.

"Or what?" Cooper asked, turning towards Brenda. He was teetering a bit. Pete, for his part, looked like he'd sobered up completely, rigid as he was, standing next to the stairwell. Brenda Jenkins was the daughter of the Brooklyn Eagle's new editor in chief. Mr. Jenkins started off his life as a police officer and was still a brother to the precinct.

"Or I'll have to let Father know what a terrible lout you were tonight," Brenda said, buttoning her coat up as she came down the stairs. Her expression was pleasant, but there was a hardness underneath—enough to make it clear she wasn't fooling.

"Sorry, Miss Jenkins," Pete said, tipping his hat. "James and Fred were just having themselves a discourse."

"Is that what this is?" Brenda asked. She walked up to Fred, and gave him a once over so thorough he seemed to shrink a good foot and a half. "Your argument must not have been particularly convincing." She turned her back on Fred and came to a stop in front of Bucky. "Otherwise you wouldn't have required quite so much punctuation."

Bucky looked from her to Fred and snuck a glance back at Pete, who shrugged. As Bucky reached down to pick up his coat, a drop of blood dripped from his mouth down onto the trodden snow. _Ah, hell._

"Mr. Barnes," Brenda said, "Would you care to walk me home?"

He nodded as he discreetly wiped at the blood of his chin, then put on his jacket. "See ya around, boys," he said as he offered Brenda his arm. They walked away from the tavern, down the alley.

Just before they reached the street, Cooper said, "Richie's starting up rounds again next month, Barnes. You ready for a rematch?"

Bucky slowed his steps and paused. Richie ran the boxing gym over on Front, and had been holding local competitions the last few years. He'd already approached Bucky about joining up again, weeks ago, and he'd agreed. Bucky had been planning on telling Richie he'd changed his mind. Boxing and posing for Steve's art class didn't seem like a good match.

"You gonna be on the roster?" Cooper asked, bloodlust tingeing his voice.

"Wouldn't miss it," Bucky said, grinding his teeth. A rematch against Cooper sounded perfect right about now.

Brenda glared at him when they turned the corner. "What was that all about?"

The snow crunched under their feet as they walked, and Bucky watched his boots leave crisp footprints for a few moments before answering, "Cooper was mouthing off."

"Mm," she nodded knowingly. "Insult your honor?"

"Not mine. Steve's."

"Oh." She shrugged and gave Bucky a smile. "Well then I suppose you had no choice. How is Steve, these days? I haven't seen him since April."

Bucky's lip twinged when he smirked, remembering that night. It'd been the last time he'd seen Brenda outside of the bar. He'd dragged Steve to the Spring Fling dance to try to get him out of his funk and it'd worked, mostly. Brenda had danced with the two of them and smiled the whole time, despite Steve stepping on her toes. He'd stepped on Bucky's too, not that he cared. Brenda had left near the end of the night, insisting that Steve keep practicing with Bucky so they could all dance again in the Fall. They'd missed that dance on account of Steve's bronchitis. "Okay. Had a bad time with his lungs the last few months. The cold don't sit well with him. But he got new medicine, seems to be helping."

"Well That's good to hear, at least. And he's still drawing."

"Yeah, getting better every year."

"I've seen a few he's done for the paper recently. He draws city streets, the latest automobiles, a few portraits."

"Yeah, and…" Bucky's cheeks flushed. "Other things."

"Such as?"

"He's taking a class."

"How wonderful." Her brow furrowed and she stopped walking. "James, your lip's bleeding again." She brought her gloved hand to her own lips, pointed at the spot.

Muttering a curse, Bucky brought the back of his bare hand up to his mouth. "Steve's gonna kill me." And then it occurred to him, that Pfister might not even want him to pose, if it swelled up too much. "How bad is it?" he asked, oddly panicked.

"Nothing some ice and a week or two won't heal." Brenda said. She spoke from experience, having seen enough men bruised between the bar and the police precinct.

"A week or two!" Bucky scooped up a handful of snow from a pristinely covered windowsill as they passed and brought it to his lips.

Brenda laughed. "Andy should've cut you off earlier tonight."

"Nah." Bucky shook his cold, wet fingers. "I just—Steve's gonna grill me, and plus, I got this modeling gig—" He stopped himself, realizing what he'd said. Not like it was a big secret, but somehow, telling Brenda wasn't something he'd planned to do right then and there.

"Oh?" Brenda slowed her steps. They were only a few dozen feet from her apartment building.

"It's nothing big, just—some extra cash, you know? But if I get my mug all scuffed up, then…"

She looked up at him. "Don't worry. Your mug's still plenty pretty. And since it's roughed up already, you might as well make Fred and me happy and sign up for the next championship at Richie's."

"Really?" Bucky grinned at her. "Didn't take you for a boxing fan."

"Mm. Daddy took me to see Max Baer at Madison Square Garden a few years back. Best night of my life."

"That a fact?" Bucky cracked a smile. "Well then how can I say no?"

"You can't," She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "And Fred's really got it coming. Make it count, will you?"

"I will," Bucky said, with absolute sincerity. "Thanks, Brenda." He glanced up to her building. "Give your folks my regards."

She put a gloved hand on his shoulder, stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Give Steve my best. And remind him he still owes me a drawing."

"Oh? Of what?"

"He knows," Brenda said, smiling secretively as she climbed the stairs.

Bucky stuck his hands into his pockets and headed towards home.

#

It was snowing again. The sky was a solid grey-white, and everything sounded muted, the only noise that of Bucky's boots as they crunched all the way down York, where the snow had started to melt during the day and then frozen over again.

Bucky's keys slipped from his grip when he pulled them out of his pocket, and he muttered a curse under his breath when they sunk into the snow that had fallen on the porch.

He found them eventually, fingertips only mildly frozen,

The apartment felt cozy inside. Steve was deep asleep, and had the radiator going full blast; he'd pushed the couch as close as he could. When Bucky closed the door, Steve stirred, making a soft irritated sound.

Since conversation was the last thing Bucky wanted, he hurried towards the bedroom in the back, but tripped over something on the floor. He caught himself on the kitchen counter, an impressive feat considering the whiskey.

He turned to see what he'd kicked, and found Steve's knapsack knocked on its side, pencil-box and sketch paper spilled across the floor. He looked at the partly unfurled sheets, blinking until they started to come into focus. He could see Steve's solid pencil strokes, knew they were from hours earlier, though all he could see of the exposed art were bits of a leg, a curve of an arm. Likely his arm. He took a step closer to them, but then remembered what Steve had said. How Bucky never gave him any space, how he was crowding him. Last thing Bucky wanted was to piss Steve off even more, so he ignored them, carefully stepped over the papers, up into the kitchen, wincing when the floor creaked beneath his weight.

"Bucky?" Steve asked, voice raspy with sleep.

Bucky froze, as he steadied himself. He didn't want to fight, he just wanted the room to stop spinning long enough for him to fall into bed.

Steve turned on the lamp. "You— you okay?"

"Peachy." Bucky's eyes landed on the spilled knapsack, the sheaves of paper. "I didn't look, I swear. Just tripped on your bag." He turned to give Steve a half hearted glare. "Why'd you leave it there anyway, trying to kill me?"

"No, sorry 'bout that, I was gonna put it away, but I fell asleep."

"Well," Bucky pushed back a whiskey flavored belch. "Night." He took another step into the kitchen.

"Wait—" Steve's leg knocked against their coffee table as he stood, and he winced, but limped over to the kitchen, and put his hand on Bucky's forearm. "I—I didn't mean it, what I said earlier. You gotta know that."

Bucky sighed and closed his eyes. His head was spinning worse now, exhaustion mixing with dread, making him nauseous. "No, you're right….I crowd you. I worry about you. I saw what happened to Tommy and the thought of those goons—or—or _anybody_ doing that to you…" His fingers curled at the memory of Cooper's snide face. "I won't let that happen."

"It won't." Steve sighed. "I can keep my mouth shut sometimes, you know."

"No, you can't— not when it matters." Bucky smiled at him weakly. "That's what makes you _you._ "

"I'm sorry."

"And I can't not worry about you," Bucky said, "So you're just gonna have to keep being mad at me."

I'm not mad, I—" Steve narrowed his eyes. "What happened to your lip?"

"Oh," Bucky brought his thumb up to his mouth and found his lower lip even more swollen than before. His tongue worried at the split inside. "Uh. Over at Andy's Tavern. Some guys from work and I had a…disagreement. They had some suggestions on how to improve my face."

"Doesn't look much better."

Bucky cracked a smile, despite himself. "Yeah, see that's what I told 'em. Said —you can't improve on perfection."

Steve scoffed. "Maybe they could knock some modesty into you next time."

"Nah," he looked at Steve. "That's your job."

Steve gave him a peculiar look and then nodded to himself like he'd reached a decision. He took another deep breath, let it out so slow Bucky wondered if he needed his medicine. "You want to see?"

Bucky blinked at him. "See what?"

Steve pointed a thumb at the paper on the floor.

He should've said no, but he was tired. Weary, even, and he did want to see. So, Bucky let Steve pull him back towards the couch and fell into it as gracefully as a sack of potatoes.

Papers rustled, and after a minute or two, Steve was sitting down next to him, with a whole curled stack in his lap. "You stink of booze," he said as he started to unroll the pages.

Bucky flipped him the bird and slid a few inches closer, so he could get a better look. The first page was of a man's back. It took him a few seconds to process that it was _his_ back. The pencil lines were steady, but too sharp—an angular, geometrical interpretation of his shape. "This was the warm-up pose from Tuesday, Steve said as he rolled that page up and set it aside, unfolding the next paper. "This was the longer pose."

The profile. Bucky remembered trying to figure out what to do with his legs. The detail in the drawing was much more refined than in the first—curving, smooth strokes made up his arms and legs, and he could even recognize his face. "Hey, that's pretty good," he said. He hiccupped, another after-flavor of whiskey filling his nostrils. "Almost looks like me."

"Almost, huh?" Steve said, mouth quirked. He rolled up the paper and unfolded the next one: Bucky leaning against the wall, from earlier that night. The detail and shading had been rushed, but it was clear enough for him to recognize the different muscles in his arms and back, even the way his hair fell made it clear it was him.

Carefully, Steve set the drawing down and reached for the next one. Steve's eyes flicked to Bucky and then focused on the paper in his lap as he unfolded it. Bucky's breath got stuck in his throat.

Bucky recognized his pose, but he didn't, because whoever that man in the drawing was, he was far too beautiful to be him. The long, strong line of the legs, the rise and fall of his chest, the sheer precision of the detail—no longer rough geometrical shapes but lifelike, human form—the hint of veins in his arms and the line of his chin, his five o'clock shadow, his eyelashes, all drawn with far more care than most anyone had shown him in life.

Something in his heart clenched uncomfortably because _Steve_ had drawn this. Steve's fingers had shaded the curves of Bucky's legs, the slope of his chest and stomach and the divot of his throat; he could see Steve's fingerprint on the edge of the page, felt it tracing its way down his legs and shivered at the thought. Steve had drawn him before, plenty—but never like this. Never so intimate. "That's not me."

"Course it is."

"No, I don't—" Bucky ran his hand through his hair, struggling to put his thoughts into words. "This looks like—like one of those whatchamacallits—those Rembrandts at the museum. It looks like—"

Steve furrowed his brow. "Like art?"

"Yeah," Bucky chewed on his lip. "Like art."

"Thanks," Steve said.

Bucky jabbed his finger at the paper, right at the bend of his splayed legs. "And this— this isn't me. Because I don't look like…that."

"Yes, you do." Steve squinted, bringing the sheet closer to his eyes. He turned to Bucky as he lowered the sheet again. "I know you—know what you look like. I've drawn you before."

"More than a few times."

Steve flushed. "Yeah, and I've never thanked you for that."

"Don't gotta thank me," Bucky yawned, his eyes were starting to feel heavy.

"I think…until tonight, until that last pose, you weren't really you up there. You were putting on a show, trying to prove something, maybe. I don't know. But that last pose, it was…" Steve ran his finger over the edge of the drawing's feet. "It was you."

"Then you were drawing somebody else, because no way do I look like some—some kinda—" Bucky stood, too quickly, regretted it when his head started spinning. "—work of art. Not like you." He made his way towards the kitchen, but his foot caught on the little step separating the two rooms. He tripped, caught himself on the wall, turned back and smiled at Steve and his pile of sketches. "Night, Stevie."

Very quietly, Steve said, "night."

Bucky opened the door to the bedroom, pushed it closed again with his foot, then crossed the room to the bed, where he fell face first onto the mattress and right to sleep.

#

The next morning, Bucky's head felt like a wad of cotton and thumbtacks, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a trash can. He pushed himself onto his knees, sat back on his heels and then slowly moved his legs over the edge of the bed. The door was closed most of the way, but there was something on the floor. A folded piece of paper. He stared at it for a good long time before forcing himself to his feet. Bending over to pick it up was torture, so he hobbled back to the bed and sat, pushing back a wave of queasiness.

He unfolded the page and rubbed the sand from his eyes.

It was a portrait of him, sleeping. The lines were carefully drawn, detailed down to the shadow of his eyelashes. Bucky stared at it for a few long seconds, while his brain spat out white noise, and then…it all came back. He'd come home and Steve—Steve had showed him the sketches he'd made during the class. And maybe it was the lingering after-effects of way too much liquor, but those drawings had seemed way too real, way too full of care for them to be anything but a twin of that feeling Bucky got in his chest every time he thought of Steve. That pulse of heat and fierce loyalty that made him want to hold on to Steve and never let go.

Bucky ran his finger over the sketch. This one wasn't from the class. It was from some other day or night—Bucky sleeping. A portrait of his own face, relaxed and peaceful. The detail was extraordinary—flaws drawn with so much care they only seemed to accent the overall piece—the mole on his forehead and the slight dent in his ear. He could feel Steve's touch in the shading of his cheekbones, down the hollow of his throat. At the bottom, in his steady hand, Steve had written: _"Muse" from Latin "Musa" definition: a source of inspiration, a guiding genius. You may not be a genius, but you're definitely my inspiration. Sorry I was a louse, S._

Careful not to crinkle it, Bucky rolled the paper up, and padded out into the kitchen, rehearsing something quippy to say to Steve. He couldn't start the day off so honest. Not with his head heavy as a warship and his heart as light as a hummingbird.

"You definitely need more practice, Stevie," Bucky said, as he passed the kitchen table. Steve wasn't in the kitchen, or on the couch. But the chain was still on their hallway door, so he hadn't gone to the bathroom. "This barely even looks like me." It was colder than he'd expected—maybe their radiator had given up its ghost again like last year. Bucky crossed his arms across his chest, shivering. When he got to the couch, he finally saw where the cold was coming from; the door was wide open, and Steve was standing just outside in his socks, with a blanket over his shoulders. "What are you doing, it's freezing in—"

A paperboy's shouting interrupted him. "He repeated the same words over and over, as he rushed down the street, "War! America at War! Bombs dropped on Pearl Harbor! Fifteen hundred dead!"

Bucky walked up behind Steve, stared out at the boy's footprints trailing down the snow-dusted street, and couldn't think of a thing to say.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2 ( _Late Spring - 1943_ ) 

Steve gritted his teeth as he forced himself to breathe through the cramp in his side. Bucky, sadist that he was, had insisted they run all the way to the gym. They only had three blocks left to go, which meant it was the single longest distance Steve had ever run at once, but at that moment, those last three blocks seemed impossibly and painfully far away.

"Come on!" Bucky shouted from across the street. "I ain't carrying you again."

Steve flipped him the bird and started hobbling across the street, cursing Bucky's name under his breath. But he'd asked Bucky to train him, to get him in shape—good enough so the next time he went to the enlistment center they wouldn't write him off. So he pushed forwards, focused on the grey squat building ahead.

Two painful minutes later, Steve caught up to Bucky, who was leaning against the back door to the gym, holding it open. Steve would have flipped him off again, but his arms were tingly. He put his hands on his knees, instead, panting.

"You okay?" Bucky's smirk gave way to concern.

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Whatever you say." Bucky headed into the locker room.

Steve followed him in, walked straight to the fountain and took a long drink of water, which helped him feel moderately better.

"You ready?" Bucky asked, stripping out of his work-shirt. He reached into his open locker and started pulling out sparring gear. The motion left his thin undershirt rucked up.

"Uh." The saliva left Steve's mouth as he watched the roll of Bucky's shoulders and forced himself not to stare at the fine trail of hair that ran down his stomach to the waistband of his shorts. "Yeah."

Bucky pulled his undershirt straight again, but it didn't quite cover his waist. The shirt was getting far too small, too tight around the chest and too short besides. Bucky, unlike Steve, had gone through another growth spurt recently, not just height but breadth. Steve did his best to unstick his eyes from Bucky's skin, but it was a losing battle.

"Come on," Bucky said. "Let's get going while you're still warmed up."

"It's freezing in here," Steve said, shivering. Now that he was standing still, the sweat was cooling him down, and it hadn't been that hot outside to begin with—oddly chilly for the end of May.

"Well it's warmer in there." Bucky grabbed Steve by the arm and pulled him towards the locker room door.

The main room of Richie's Gym didn't feel any warmer, in fact, it felt even colder to Steve. It also stunk like old sweat and leather. There were five other men—one jumping rope, one lifting a medicine ball, one at the counter reading a paper, and two at the practice bags in the back. But the boxing ring itself was empty.

"Told you this place was great," Bucky said, as he caught Steve staring. "My old man's friends with Richie." Bucky nodded towards the old man behind the counter who looked up and gave them a halfhearted wave and a slightly less halfhearted smile. "Said we could use the place, free of charge."

"Not totally free," Steve said. He'd heard Bucky negotiating, bad ear or no.

"Ten percent of the winnings ain't bad, 'specially not when I was gonna fight anyway." Bucky grabbed one of the rolls of cloth tape he'd brought and started wrapping his left hand.

Steve gave him what he hoped was a withering look. "Sure you were." He knew why Bucky had signed up, and it wasn't because he 'felt the itch to knock some wiseass down,' like he claimed. They'd been strapped for cash more and more, and all Steve's attempts to get extra work at the Brooklyn Eagle had failed. He'd even considered offering to go back on his paperboy route, but Mr. Jenkins, the paper's owner and Editor in Chief, had eyed him up and down and said, _"We've got twelve year olds more solid than you. In this weather? Can't risk you turning into an icicle."_

"Besides, he's always taken a cut. Not like I have an agent." Bucky finished wrapping his other hand. "Now shut your trap. You ready to learn? Or did you come to your senses?" He picked up another roll of tape and tossed it at Steve's head. It bounced off his cheek and fell to the floor.

Steve picked the tape up and started to unroll it. "No way. I want to do this. I want to enlist."

"We've been over this, Steve. They're not gonna take you— your lungs—"

"Yeah, I know, but this'll make them better, right?" Steve put the tape loop around his thumb, like Bucky had done, and started to wrap the band between his fingers, around his palm, over and over. But instead of the tight glove shape Bucky had formed on his own hands, his own looked lumpen and misshapen.

"Honestly? I don't know," Bucky looked down at Steve's hand and grimaced. "Gimme that," he snapped and unwound Steve's hand, then swiftly wound the tape again, smooth and taut.

"Ow!" Steve said. "Does it have to be that tight?"

"With twig-wrists like yours? Yes, it does" Bucky said. He snatched Steve's other hand and started wrapping it. "These'll keep 'em steady."

Steve picked up the helmet at his feet and strapped it on.

Bucky tossed his own helmet up into the ring, winked at Steve and pulled himself up onto the edge of the platform. His long legs climbed easily over the ropes and Steve most certainly did not notice the curve of Bucky's ass under the clingy fabric, or the way his thigh muscles shifted as he turned back around and reached his hand down over the ropes. "Come on, I'll help you up."

"Don't these usually have stairs?" Steve asked, frowning.

"Yeah, they broke." Bucky lowered his voice. "Richie's been 'getting 'em fixed' for the last two months."

Stretching as tall as he could, Steve went up on his tiptoes until Bucky got a hold of his hand. Then, with feet propped against the side of the ring, Steve climbed up one unsteady step at a time until he got a hold of the ropes. He slipped between them rather than trying to climb over them, which was decidedly less dignified, especially when his foot nearly got caught as he pulled his leg through, but it was still a far better choice than attempting to climb over the side.

The ring smelled slightly better than the rest of the gym, a faint hint of lavender covering the smell of sweat, but there were dark stains in two of the corners—old blood.

Bucky caught him looking. "Richie cleans it plenty, but those stains don't come out easy." He stopped at one smaller spot near the center of the canvas. ”Pretty sure this one's mine." He crouched down and squinted. "Yeah, from March. Remember?"

"Truskowski."

"Yeah, he had a mean hook. Hell of a southpaw," Bucky said, standing again. He grabbed his sparring helmet on the way back to Steve. "So here's the deal. And I know this won't be easy for ya. But in here you gotta listen to me, all right?"

"That's the plan," Steve said with only a slight eye roll.

"Yeah, but you ain't never listened to me proper before."

"What? I always—"

"Lying’s a sin, Stevie," Bucky said. "But I got something that'll help." He reached into his helmet and pulled out two small boxes: mouth-guards. He opened one of the boxes and emptied it into Steve's hand. "This'll keep you nice and quiet and protect your pearly whites."

Steve stuck the rubber bit into his mouth. "Ike dis?"

Bucky smirked and adjusted the strap on Steve's helmet. "Yeah. Christ this thing's loose on you." He shook his head, bemused. "Okay so first, put your fists up like this. Elbows to your sides." He lifted his fists, elbows down, then lowered his head and waited for Steve to do the same. "You already know how to throw a punch. Sort of. But you gotta protect yourself too."

#

"Up for some more?" Bucky asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Steve took another drink of water from the fountain. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. We were barely in there ten minutes, pal."

"Fine," Steve walked back over to the ring and pulled himself up, or tried to, but his arms were jelly. Bucky shoved him up roughly by pushing on the underside of his thighs and Steve grabbed hold of the ropes. "Hey!" He flushed up to the tips of his ears but got himself together enough to give Bucky a proper glare once he clambered into the ring with him.

Unimpressed by his irritation, Bucky said. "So your punching ain't shabby. You need more power, but we'll work on that. Sometimes what's even more important is speed, and that I can show you."

Steve started bouncing on the balls of his feet, like he'd seen Bucky do. "Like this?"

"That's the idea," Bucky said. "You have to learn be fast in here, because trust me—out there, nobody is going to give you the time to catch up." Bucky lifted his chin. "So pay attention, do exactly what I say, and maybe, just maybe, I can teach you to hold your own."

"I hold my own plenty," Steve muttered.

"Sure you do, against mice and raccoons." Bucky slipped the smaller helmet over Steve's head. "Small ones anyway. Don't think I forgot about what happened at Olson's."

"That thing was the size of a wolfhound, come on." Steve's voice got cut off when Bucky rudely shoved the mouth-guard into his open mouth. The rubber bit made it harder to breathe, but Steve had seen what happened to boxers' teeth when they didn't wear them, so he knew better than to protest. "Ee fanz."

"What was that?" Bucky asked, with a shit-eating grin.

Steve glared at him and put on his padded gloves.

"I'm gonna jab at you, you're gonna block, like this." Bucky grabbed Steve's wrist and brought it horizontal, as he threw a light punch. "Block quick, or I'll hit your nose."

Before Steve had a chance to ask, Bucky put his own mouth guard in, then slipped on his own gloves. He slammed them together, more for effect than anything else, likely. _Show off,_ Steve thought, and only barely glimpsed Bucky's arm pulling back before it flew forward again in a fast punch.

Steve went to intercept, and did so with the boniest part of his forearm. Which, granted, was most of his forearm. But he blocked with the part that hadn't been wrapped up by tape.

Bucky stepped back and even with the mouth-guard in place, Steve could see that he was frowning. "Bhawk," Bucky said, voice muddled, "Ike iss," He moved Steve's arm straight down again, so it was parallel with Bucky's fist . "O u an pu up

"Huh?" Steve asked.

Bucky threw another punch and Steve blocked the way Bucky had showed him, pushing down and away, which gave Bucky even more room to throw another punch that landed on Steve's nose.

"Ow" Steve muttered, though it didn't actually hurt that much. He just expected it to, from experience.

"Ush up!" Bucky said again and then Steve got it. The next punch that came, he not only blocked but forced upwards.

Bucky drooled a bit when he smiled, which made Steve laugh and also drool on himself. Boxing wasn't the most attractive sport up close.

They went through the same drill again, over and over, switching sides, and Steve didn't block every punch, but he was getting better.

After several more rounds of punching and blocking, Bucky pulled off his gloves, and took out his mouth-guard. Steve wiped the sweat from his brow and worked his mouth-guard out between his teeth. Bucky held out the little box and Steve let it slide, drool-covered into the container.

"If you learn one thing from me it'd better be this part—" Bucky held his arms up, fists just in front of his head, elbows down. "Use your arms to guard your head and your ribs. Those are the two spots that break the easiest."

"You don't say," Steve said grimly. He'd had his nose broken four times and his ribs twice. And that was just last year.

"When somebody tries to punch you, you won't always be able to get out of the way, but you can at least keep 'em from landing a shot on your noggin." Bucky started bouncing on his feet again. "When you punch, you gotta think of your arms like rubber bands, you got me? They always come back here." He shook his fists then threw a quick jab and a cross, bringing them right back, lighting quick. "Should be a piece of cake for you since you've already got rubber bands for arms."

"Ha ha," Steve said, bringing his fists up.

"Show me," Bucky said.

"No mouth-guard?"

"My teeth are messed up anyway. Maybe you'll knock one back into place."

Steve smiled despite himself, and threw a jab, then a cross, even remembered to bring his fists right back to his head.

"Good, now do it faster."

#

 

"You keep eating that much beef you're gonna turn into a cow," Steve said as Bucky hungrily wolfed down his third helping of stew.

"Moo," Bucky said, mouth full. "Your fault for making it taste so good."

Steve had left most of the meat for Bucky, even if he'd never fess up to it. And he did have to admit it tasted decent. He'd built on what his Ma had taught him, adding more than just salt. Mrs. Potts from next door had been bringing by handfuls of herbs from her small garden out back and Steve had added some of that parsley and rosemary to the stew along with some fresh garlic and tomato. He picked up his own empty bowl to carry it to the sink and winced at the ache in his shoulders.

"You okay?" Bucky asked, looking up at Steve as he passed.

"My shoulders." Steve groaned as he brought his hands up to where the ache was.

Bucky chortled. "Wait until tomorrow morning. You're gonna hate me."

"I hate you now."

"No you don't, you love me."

Steve smiled to himself as he set the dishes down and turned on the faucet.

Bucky stepped up next to him, bowl licked clean and set his own bowl in the sink. "I'll take care of this. Go, sit."

"Thanks," Steve said and walked to the couch. His legs were starting to ache too, if he was honest, but they weren't anywhere near as bad as his shoulders. He paused by the hallway door. "I'm gonna hit the can."

"Don't get lost."

Steve stepped out into the chilly hallway and wrapped his arms around himself as he made his way down to the bathroom. Mrs. Potts was talking to Joe Romano. "I'm so sorry, dear," she said quietly. Joe looked miserable.

"What am I gonna tell Mary?" he said. "I don't know how to tell her."

Mrs. Potts nodded knowingly. "Why don't you both come over. I'll put on some tea."

"That'll just make her more suspicious." Joe sighed. "I had a bad feeling too, when I went to get the mail earlier, you know?"

Steve opened the bathroom door and just as he pulled the door shut, he heard Joe add, "Just didn't think my number would get called so _soon_."

#

Bucky was nearly done drying the dishes when Steve got back to the kitchen. He whipped the wet towel at Steve and flicked his ear. Steve ducked, wincing again at his aching shoulder.

"That's just sad," Bucky said, clucking his tongue. "Go siddown."

"Yeah," Steve let out a yawn as he sat on the couch and leaned back gingerly, trying to find the position that hurt the least.

Bucky joined him moments later and sat down next to him. "Turn."

"Huh?"

"Turn so your back's facing me," he said. "I'm gonna rub your shoulders."

"Huh?" Steve shifted to his side, turning his back to Bucky. He wasn't sure what to expect exactly, and took a deep, steadying breath, but then Bucky slid up close to him and Steve's brain sputtered to a halt.

"This'll help, trust me," Bucky said, as he wrapped his hands around Steve's shoulders. Steve closed his eyes as Bucky's thumbs pressed down and into his tight muscles. Bucky's hands were warm and the motion felt so good Steve couldn't stop a moan from escaping his lips. "See?" Bucky said. "This way you won't wake up stiff as a board tomorrow morning."

Steve was fairly certain part of him was already stiff, and was going to stay that way for a while. He got his brain cells active enough to shift his knees, and grabbed surreptitiously for the pillow nearby, clutching at it as Bucky's fingers worked their way deeper into his aching flesh.

"Tell me if I'm doing it too hard."

Steve couldn't stop a laugh from escaping. "No, no that's great." And then realized if he didn't stop Bucky soon, the pillow he'd shifted over his lap wasn't going to be enough to hide what was happening to him.

So when Bucky shifted his hips, and slid closer to Steve's back, Steve did the only thing he could.

"Ow!"

Bucky let go instantly. "Aw geez, sorry Steve, did I go to deep?"

"Just— just a little," Steve said, bending his legs as he pulled the quilt onto his lap. "But it feels better, already, thanks."

"Good." Bucky stood and smiled down at him. "You'll feel even better after a good night's sleep too, trust me. Your body does most of its healing at night."

"Maybe yours does." Steve scoffed. "Mine usually just forgets how to breathe."

Bucky frowned for a second before his face settled on his usual smile again. "Air's okay tonight. Want me to crack the window?"

"Yeah, a little." Steve pulled the blanket up to his chin, but stayed sitting. If he laid flat, Bucky'd see the lingering effects of his massage.

"Night, Steve," Bucky said and headed to the bedroom.

Steve turned off the lamp, rested his head against the pillow and lay on his side, listening. When soft snoring began to come from the bedroom, Steve brought his hand down between his legs and thought of the press of Bucky's fingers.

#

It did feel better the next morning. Though that thought didn't occur to Steve until well after breakfast. He'd gotten up an hour or so after Bucky left for work. The Brooklyn Eagle was expecting him to turn in two pieces before noon, and he'd only nearly finished both, so he got right to it, polishing up the lines on the battleship he'd sketched. It was the USS North Carolina, one Bucky had helped put the finishing touches on. He'd sketched it back on the day of launch, captured it heading out from the dock, and the Eagle wanted a picture of her to put next to an article about the Pacific Theatre. They didn't have a photo on hand, but they had Steve.

_"…news from overseas. Slow progress in the Pacific as United States warships, side by side with our allies…"_

The radio crackled a bit and Steve leaned over to the end table on the other side of the couch to adjust the antennae. His pencil slipped out of his lap and fell. _"…of the Royal Netherlands Navy."_ Steve's fingers felt around blindly in the space under the couch until they found a truly horrifying ball of dust and (hopefully) fibers from their raggedy carpet, but just to the side of that was the pencil.

_"Every day sees more brave men shipping out, bidding their loved ones farewell."_

First drawing finished, Steve went to make himself some coffee. There was a scrap of paper on the kitchen table —Bucky's note, which read, _'Gym at five.'_ Steve groaned inwardly and remembered the aches from yesterday, and how Bucky's hands had eased them and suddenly the thought of working out with Bucky seemed like a terrible idea. He still wanted to get healthier, had to, if he wanted a chance at enlisting, but what had happened last night was just going to complicate things. And life was already plenty complicated. Steve's body got confused last night was all, mixed up pleasure from relief with a different kind of pleasure. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't. It wasn't like Steve didn't think Bucky was attractive, but Bucky was Steve's best friend, his only friend, and Steve wasn't about to mess that up because his own hormones were being unreasonable.

_"…so enlist today!"_

Still deep in thought, Steve stirred sugar into his coffee and came to a decision. He was working out so he could enlist. But once the enlistment office took him, he wouldn't have to ask Bucky to give him the private lessons anymore.

He'd already gone to the main office a few weeks earlier, but they'd opened a new one further down on Flatbush. It was worth a shot, and the office wasn't all that far from the Eagle.

He finished the second drawing—a young man in uniform—with a new sense of purpose, rolled his papers carefully, stuck them into his case, and ran out the door.

Halfway down Front Street, he jogged back home, and grabbed his gym bag.

#

"...'cause they're crazy, that's why." Mr. Jenkins, the Brooklyn Eagle's chief editor, said as Steve quietly opened the door to his office. He was talking to somebody Steve had never seen before. A new reporter, likely. The Eagle had high turnover even during peaceful times, but lately faces were disappearing on a weekly basis.

"Rogers! Thought you were gonna finally miss a deadline and give me an excuse to hire another photographer," Mr. Jenkins said, lighting a cigarette.

"Photographs aren't half as pretty as what Steve makes," said a woman's voice from behind them. Steve turned around and found Brenda Jenkins smiling back at him.

"War ain't pretty, sweetheart," the new reporter said, smugly.

Mr. Jenkin's raised an eyebrow. "Be that as it may, Johnny, don't ever call my daughter sweetheart again."

Johnny paled and stuttered an apology.

Steve set the illustrations down on Mr. Jenkin's desk, and gave Brenda a smile. "Thanks, Brenda."

Brenda grinned at him. "Hello Steve, you're looking well."

Steve felt his cheeks flush. "Thanks, I've been uh—that is—Bucky's been training me some at the gym."

"He's a good man, that James Barnes," Brenda said, shaking her head.

"Barnes?" Mr. Jenkins asked. "Boy's a hell of a fighter. I'm going to see him fight on Saturday. Got some bread riding on him, too. Tell him not to let me down, you hear?"

"You bet," Steve said as he started to head for the door.

Brenda slung her arm through his and turned to walk with him.

"Just a minute, Rogers," Mr. Jenkins said. "Johnny, skedaddle."

Johnny skedaddled.

Steve turned back to the editor's desk, and Brenda gave him a wave before walking out the door.

"You're pals with Barnes, yeah?" Jenkins asked.

"Yes sir, good pals." Steve stifled a cough, eyes watering from the smoke.

Jenkins set his cigarette down in the large glass ashtray on his desk. "Think you could get a sketch of him and Cooper at the fight on Saturday?"

"I…uh. Sure!" Steve said. He wanted to protest, explain how difficult it was to capture action, but he wasn't going to turn down an extra payment, and it's not like he hadn't had enough practice drawing Bucky. Cooper, on the other hand, he had no desire to draw, but if he timed it right, maybe he could get a shot of Cooper's face being mashed in by Bucky's glove. "Sure thing."

"Great! I'll add in an extra two bucks to your pay."

"That's swell, Mr. Jenkins. Thanks."

"My daughter seems to think highly of you, and her instincts are sharp as a tack," he said, smiling. He straightened, reached for his cigarette, and added, "She wants to go to the fight, you know."

"Yeah?" Steve thought Bucky'd like that.

"Not sure how I feel about that. Her mother says boxing isn't a ladies' sport."

"With all due respect, sir, it's not a gentlemen's sport either. But I've seen Bucky's sister knock down guys twice her size. I think it has more to do with skill than anything else."

Jenkins cracked a smile. "Point taken, son. Maybe we'll see you there. If I can convince the missus."

"Sure thing," Steve said, "have a good day, sir."

"And to you," Mr. Jenkins said, reaching for his cigarette again.

Steve walked back out to the main room, past Johnny's desk. The radio on his desk crackled. _"…the third allied warship lost this week alone."_

Steve shoved open the heavy stairwell door and jogged down the stairs.

#

The enlistment office was packed beyond the brim; there was a line curving around the corner, halfway down the block— men clutching letters, some of them with anxious, ashen faces, some of them bored. Steve got in line and closed his eyes, relishing the feel of the morning sun on his shoulders.

By the time he got inside, over an hour had passed. Inside the enlistment office, it was sweltering. Much like the other one he'd been to, the waiting room was lined with occupied chairs and most of the men sitting in them had stripped down to their shorts, already done with the physical exam.

Steve trudged along with the rest to the exam rooms, stripping out of his jacket when it became too hot to bear. He filled out the enlistment form on a clipboard while the line moved slowly but steadily forwards.

The nurse gave him a thin smile as she asked him to take off his shirt and wait for the doctor. The exam took less than a minute, and the doctor clucked his tongue twice—once after listening to Steve's heart, and again after listening to his lungs. Regardless, Steve thought his lungs felt stronger than they had, and assumed they'd sounded better too.

But the doctor clearly didn't agree. Steve's form was already stamped 4F when they called his name.

#

By the time Steve got back to their neighborhood, it was well past five. He hurried to Richie's, glad that he'd had the forethought to bring his gym bag to the recruitment office. He'd changed into his workout clothes before leaving, shorts underneath his pants. It was an unneeded extra layer in the heat outside, but it meant he had less to carry.

Even though he ran part of the way—almost eight and a half blocks before his lungs started screaming for mercy—it was just past five by the time he got to the gym. He stripped out of his jacket and dropped his things on the floor near the wall, then walked over to the boxing bags, where Bucky was practicing. He was on the speed-bag, lips pursed, deep in focus, fists moving at a fast steady rhythm. The bag was vibrating so quickly it looked blurry.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," Steve said.

Bucky kept his eyes forward.

"I uh—had an appointment."

"Doctor?"

"Sorta." Steve unbuckled his slacks and slid them off—dropping them next to the wall. "I…" He cleared his throat. "I went to enlist."

Bucky's hands slowed for a second. "Oh?" He picked up his pace again, switching from hooks to uppercuts. "And how'd that go? Better than last month?"

The complete lack of sarcasm in Bucky's tone was even worse than the teasing Steve had expected. "Didn't make it this time."

"This time?" Bucky stopped hitting the speed bag and walked over to the heavy bag, throwing Steve a glance over his shoulder. "You planning on going again?"

"Well…yeah. I'll keep trying until they say yes."

Bucky's fists hit the bag hard. _Thwack. Thwack._ "Pretty sure you ain't supposed to do that."

"Well I'm gonna get in better shape and then they won't be able to say no."

_Thwack. Thwack._

"I can help. They just don't know I'm useful because I look like me, not like—" He gestured at Bucky. "I mean, nobody's gonna stamp you a 4F."

The chains holding the bag shook as Bucky's fists plowed into it again and again. _Thwack._ "No, they're not." _Thwack._ "But then again, I'm not as eager to hurl myself across the ocean as you are."

"Why not?" Steve asked, and wished he could keep the bitterness out of his voice, but found he couldn't.

 _Thwack. Thwack._ Bucky shifted his stance and threw a hook, forcefully enough to send the bag's chains jangling.

Steve knew, on some level, that he was pushing too far, crossing a line, but he couldn't stop himself. He had to know. "Why don't you want to go? Your old man's military."

"Yeah. He is." Bucky's voice was getting louder, but he caught himself, tamped it back down, which only made him seem angrier. "And he told me stories." Bucky swallowed. "'bout what really happens out there. Stuff they don't tell you in the papers."

"Like what?" Steve asked.

"You don't want to know."

"Yeah, I do." Steve said, growing more contrary.

Bucky stopped beating the bag and turned to Steve with a dark look. "One winter, he and his squadron got trapped in this shitty little stretch of land way up north in Belgium. They'd run out of supplies. Had to hold the line because they were supposed to take down this general heading their way. Then the Germans came—in tanks—plowed down everybody, and my dad dropped down into the trench, buried his head and prayed. The rest of the guys in his group all got shot, fell on him one by one. And the Germans— they went and set up camp in the same trench, maybe thirty feet away. So he stayed there. Covered in the dead and the dying and he stayed there, hiding the whole damn night."

Steve swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"And the guy they were supposed to capture—the general? Turns out he never even passed through there." Bucky wiped the sweat from his brow and turned back to the bag, landing another punch, and another.

For a solid three minutes, Steve stayed quiet and just watched him—the fast motion, the focused anger, and the sheer power in his body. He was almost disappointed when Bucky stopped, and not just because now he'd have to come up with an apology for being such a jerk. "I didn't know—"

"Pa drinks himself to sleep every night. Ma said he never even touched the stuff before he served. And my whole life, he ain't gone through a single night dry. That's what you're signing up for. You sure you're ready for that?"

Steve swallowed. "I can't just sit here and do nothing. I've been doing nothing my entire life."

Bucky's eyes narrowed. "Steve, that's not true."

"You— you can do whatever you want, but me…I'm useless."

Bucky grabbed Steve by the shoulders and looked at him with such ferocity that Steve's heart started to race. "Don't you ever say anything that stupid again, Steve, or I swear to the Almighty I'll knock you to the floor."

Steve's mouth went dry.

For a few more seconds they stared at each other, and Steve wondered how Bucky could be so misguided about something so fundamentally true. It didn't matter if they were friends, he had to know, on some logical level, that when it came right down to it, Steve didn't have a damn thing to offer the world. But he wanted to. He thought for a minute and figured what the Hell, he'd already pissed Bucky off enormously, so he might as well finish strong. "What's happening over there, it's—"

"Yes, it's awful." Bucky blew a stray lock of hair up away from his forehead and looked down at the floor. "You're damn right it's awful, but what we've got here—" Bucky cut himself off, rolled his lips under his teeth as he met Steve's eyes again. "What we've got here, ain't so bad, and I don't— I don't want to lose that just yet."

"Buck, you're not losing anything. It's just doing what's right. What needs to be done."

Bucky dropped his fists and took a deep breath, eyes scrunched closed. Anger spilled off of him, hot enough that Steve found himself starting to sweat.

When Bucky raised his head again and looked at Steve, his eyes were heavy with sorrow. "Why—" And his voice—that low, steady voice that Steve had clung to like bedrock his whole life—that voice hitched. "Why are you so eager to get yourself killed?"

"Men are giving their lives to be a part of this war, Buck. What's going on over there, it's evil and we have to help stop it."

"We are helping." Bucky took a step closer, lowered his voice, brow furrowed. "I build the ships. You draw the stories."

"We could make a difference over there, you're strong—"

"Strong don't mean jack-shit against a rain of bullets."

"Yeah but you're a mean shot, too."

Bucky's lips quirked. "Shooting cans in the yard and clay discs, sure. Shooting people's a whole different ballgame. And I'm not too keen on killing."

"Looking good, son!" Came a loud voice. Richie strode towards them, grinning wide. "You ready for tomorrow night?"

"You betcha," Bucky said, matching Richie's grin with an ease that made Steve wince. He'd never been able to shrug off his emotions as easily as Bucky could.

Richie pulled Bucky aside, talking in a congenial, conspiratorial way reserved for—in Steve's experience—gamblers who were sure they had the best hand in the house.

For lack of anything better to do, Steve moved a few feet away, dropped down to the floor and started doing push-ups, the way Bucky had shown him—all the way down, all the way up, hands wide, legs steady. Only, his back didn't like the motion at all and neither did his wrists, or his thighs for that matter, and after the fourth lift he could feel his form slipping terribly. He sat back on his haunches and caught Bucky watching him, through his mask of perfect calm, with an intensity that made Steve turn away and start doing sit-ups.  


#

That tension stayed strung tight between them all during practice and all the way home. Steve kept his mouth shut, because he couldn't think of a thing to say that wouldn't make it worse. Luckily, Bucky headed straight for the bathroom to wash up when they got home, which gave Steve a few minutes to himself. He dug through their refrigerator until he had enough random vegetables and a piece of meat he could do something with. He threw the vegetables into some boiling water and was frying the lamb when Bucky came back.

"Smells good," Bucky said from inside the bedroom as he got dressed. The first words either of them had spoken in nearly an hour.

Relief spread through Steve's chest like warmth. "Lamb. And some vegetables. Just about ready."

"I'm starving," Bucky said as he walked back out into the kitchen wearing pants and nothing else. He was rubbing his hair dry with a towel.

Steve turned his eyes back to the frying pan, determined not to stare at the water droplets running down Bucky's chest.

Bucky disappeared in the bedroom again for a minute and came back out wearing a undershirt. Better, if not by much. He grabbed plates, forks and knives and set the table while Steve finished cooking.

Steve brought the vegetable pot over first, then the lamb. By the time he sat down, his own stomach was grumbling.

"Sorry about earlier," Bucky said.

Steve looked up at him, waiting for some elaboration, but there wasn't any. "So what'd Richie talk to you about?" Steve asked, as he cut off a piece of gamy meat.

Bucky harrumphed as he wolfed down another bite. "He's got plans, Richie. Wants me to run a whole circuit. Asked me if he could sign me up for the nationals."

"Nationals?"

"Yeah, if I win this match, I'm the local winner for the season, which makes me eligible."

"You gonna do it?" Steve asked.

Bucky looked thoughtful, voice colored with something Steve couldn't quite place. "Not too sure that's in the cards."

"Why not?" Steve asked. "You love boxing, and you're good at it—you're great at it from what Richie was saying, I mean he talked about you like you were—"

"Yeah, but that's here. All I've fought is other Brooklyn guys, not the real deal." He chomped on another piece of meat. "Plus, I ain't too sure boxing goes hand in hand with my other job, or my other other job." He cocked an eyebrow. "Or you think Pfister won't mind all the bruises and me disappearing for months at a time."

Steve laughed. "You bring in the kinda dough Richie's talking about and you won't need to stand around for Pfister anymore."

"Yeah, well Richie talks a big game, but like I said, I ain't no pro." He cracked a smile. "Don't get your hopes up, Stevie. What if I lose tomorrow?"

Steve, belly full, stood up and paused by Bucky's side as he carried his plate to the sink. "You'll still be the better man. And plus, you're not gonna lose."

"Sound pretty sure."

"I am. Something good's coming our way. I can feel it."

"That's just the lamb." Bucky said, standing. He carried his plate to the sink and on his way back, ran his fingers roughly through Steve's hair, pushing his bangs down in front of his eyes.

"Hey!" Steve snapped, pushing his hair back and smoothing it. But when he caught Bucky looking back at him, his expression wasn't smug. There was an unexpected heaviness there—affection and sorrow.

I'm gonna go lay down and read," Bucky said pointing at the bedroom door. "Gotta hit the sack early tonight. I'm beat."

"Plus you need your beauty sleep."

"Damn right." Bucky said as he stepped into the bedroom. "G'night."

"Night," Steve said, looking up at the clock. It was only nine. He looked at the dirty dishes in the sink, and then over to the couch.

The couch was the clear winner, so Steve turned the radio on low, grabbed his sketch-pad and started to draw a boxing ring.

#

Bucky's fight was set to start at eight, but he'd left for the gym just after four that afternoon, claiming he wanted time to warm up.

Steve meant to leave at six, figured he'd still have enough time to find a good spot to watch from, but he got so impatient waiting at home, sketching out the gym from memory, that he left while the sun was still up. He brought every pencil and type of paper he thought he might need, stuffing his case full, and clamped his small lap-easel under his arm.

It started raining a few minutes after he left their apartment, and by the time he got to Richie's, Steve's jacket was soaked. He wrung it out as best he could before he went inside. Luckily, his paper case had kept all his art supplies dry. He silently thanked his mother again for buying him the case, which had seemed far too extravagant at the time.

The gym was nearly empty save for Richie, another regular whose name Steve never could remember, and Bucky, who was in the back, jumping rope. Richie gave Steve a wave as he passed and held out a clean towel. "Umbrellas. Wonderful invention."

"Thanks," Steve said, rubbing the towel over his soggy hair.

"You look like you fell in a river," Bucky said, crossing and uncrossing his hands as he hopped.

"Yeah, well, wanted to offer my moral support nice and early. Didn't know it was gonna start pouring." Steve looked back towards the counter in the back, trying to focus on Richie's white hair and the collection of trophies behind him. Anything other than Bucky's gleaming skin and that bead of sweat pooling in the hollow of his neck.

Bucky stopped jumping, and wiped the sweat from his brow. "At least go grab some spare clothes from the locker. You're dripping all over the place." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small locker room key.

"I don't have any spare clothes here," Steve said, confused.

"Yeah, but I do."

"Your stuff is way too big."

"Hey, your choice. Spend the whole night wet. You can get another case of pneumonia and grow some moss behind your ears while you're at it!"

"All right. Sheesh," Steve walked to the locker room, opened Bucky's locker, and dug around until he found a clean over-shirt and two neatly folded pairs of gym shorts at the bottom. The top pair of shorts looked smaller, so he picked those. There was an envelope underneath them. Bucky must have grabbed the mail on his way out.

Steve shut the locker, stripped out of his own wet pants and shirt and hung them over the curtain rod of one of the shower stalls in the back to dry. Bucky's shorts came down to the middle of Steve's calves, but they were dry, and after he folded the waistband twice and pulled the drawstring tight they stayed on. They didn't look particularly great, but then he was here to draw, not to impress anyone. The shirt was far too big as well, but it was a nice work-shirt, and at least covered the now bulky waistband of the shorts.

He walked back out into the main room. Bucky started chuckling as soon as he saw him and stopped jumping rope.

"I look ridiculous," Steve said.

"True, but you're dry. And plus, now you're wearing gym shorts. Might as well get a workout in."

"You're joking." Steve pointed at his art-case and easel. "I came here to draw. Well, and to watch you fight."

"We've got time." Bucky's face broke into a smile. "Plus, I'm done warming up. What else am I gonna do for the next hour?"

"Not torture me?"

"Where's the fun in that? Drop. Do ten push-ups."

Steve grimaced and dropped to the floor, arms stretched out.

"What 'cha waiting for," Bucky drawled, crouching down until he could grin at Steve.

Grimacing, Steve bent his elbows and went down, then strained as he tried to lift himself back up.

"Watch your back!" Bucky said, standing again. Legs straight. Don't let your knees sink."

Steve muttered curses under his breath and considered sketching Bucky in some hideously unflattering fashion and turning that in to the Eagle, but then realized they could just choose to not print it. Maybe if he focused more on Cooper. But no, Cooper was a despicable man. There had to be some way he could get back at Bucky for this though. His arms started to tremble violently.

As Steve struggled to push himself up a fourth time, Eddie Pranovich came over to them, grinning wide. "Barnes! Got some bread riding on you."

"Yeah?" Bucky cocked an eyebrow, and gave Steve a thumbs up.

Steve sat back on his heels, exhausted and watched the two of them. Eddie was waving his hands excitedly and Bucky's expression went from amused to slightly bewildered to back again. Steve couldn't help but strain to try to hear what they were saying.

"Hello, Steve," said a voice from behind him.

He turned and saw Brenda Jenkins smiling down at him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm early. Wanted to get a good seat, and father mentioned you were going to be here."

"Oh," Steve stood, and dusted off his knees, painfully aware of his ill-fitting clothing. "We can uh—I think up on the mezzanine. Richie said that'd be a good spot for me to draw from, only I don't know if there's seats, really. I was going to just sit against the wall."

"All right."

"We can see if he has a chair maybe or a—"

"I have sat on a floor before you know." Brenda's smile put Steve at ease.

"Miss Jenkins," Bucky piped up from behind Steve. "What brings you here?"

Brenda let out a laugh. "You know darn well what, James."

Bucky looked from Brenda to Steve. "You gonna keep the nice lady company tonight, Steve?"

"Yes I am," Steve said. "In fact, if it gets too boring, we might just leave halfway through and go get a milkshake. What do you say, Brenda?"

Brenda grinned. "I like strawberry ice cream."

"That's no fair," Bucky said, "I do my best work in the second half."

"Yeah?" Steve shrugged and gave Brenda as serious a look as he could manage. "Then I think we'd better stay."

"Glad to hear it." Bucky's expression sobered and he took a step closer to Steve, voice low like he was going to tell him a secret. "Stevie, I—"

Something about his tone made goose-bumps run up Steve's neck. "What's wrong?"

Bucky wet his lips and looked away, then back over to Brenda. And just like that, his mask of cockiness and bravado slid back into place. "You should get up there, get a good spot. Gonna get crowded. Place gets packed when there's a match."

Steve was supposed to counter with some kind of jab, rib him about his ego. But all he could think to say was. "Good luck."

Bucky's mask slipped again—for a fraction of a second. "Luck's got nothing to do with it. It's about skill and how dirty you're willing to fight."

For lack of a response Steve nodded, then took Brenda's arm and headed towards the stairs in the back.

#

Bucky hadn't been exaggerating. Within minutes, the main room of the gym was packed. A crowd of over a hundred circled the ring in the middle. Steve recognized some of the faces—neighbors from their tenement building, the butcher and his son, and Mr. Jenkins, Brenda's father. He gave them both a wave when he saw Brenda waving down at him. Brenda blew her father a kiss, then turned her smile on Steve, who flushed, remembering his last encounter with her.

_Bucky'd stepped away to get her a drink and she'd whispered in Steve's ear, "The way you look at him, I think you'd rather be dancing with him then me." Steve had stuttered out an answer, but she silenced him, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. When Bucky came back, she'd pulled Steve into the dance with them, and midway through the song, she pulled away, grinning as the two of them kept dancing. Bucky hadn't even noticed until the song was over._

Steve adjusted the paper clamped onto his lap-easel a bit, and shifted back further into the folding chair. Richie had insisted on bringing a folding chair for Brenda but Steve had followed him, offered to help carry it and snagged one for himself. They'd set the chairs right in the middle of the mezzanine, overlooking the center of the room—clearly the best seats in the house. A photographer thought so as well, and had started to set up his tripod right in front of them until Brenda cleared her throat. The photographer moved a few feet to their left, glaring at Steve who shrugged, smiling pleasantly.

After adding a few more details, Steve decided the sketch was as good as it was going to get and unclamped it from his clipboard, handing it to Brenda.

"Oh, wow!" she said, smiling wide. "This is—"

"It's not as easy as you'd think," Steve said.

"No, I imagine it isn't." Brenda tilted the sketch under the light.

"Why'd you want that anyway?" Steve asked, looking at the drawing he'd made of himself.

"Self-portraits tell you more about an artist than anything they say." She folded the paper carefully, and tucked it into her pocketbook.

The murmuring crowd below fell quiet and Steve turned his attention back to the ring. Richie stood in the center of the ring, held his arms up and announced in a loud voice, "Ladies and gentlemen." Only then did Steve see Bucky—standing in the far corner. "Welcome to Richie's—Brooklyn's favorite gym. Tonight's fight will be ten rounds." Richie gestured to the other corner. "Presenting, from Sheepshead Bay, weighing one hundred seventy-four pounds, and wearing dark trunks, Frederick Anthony Cooper." The crowd cheered and Steve swallowed. He'd only met him once before, and forgotten that Fred Cooper was a bear of a man. Easily six feet tall, and broader across than Bucky. His ears had that mushed look boxers got after years of getting poundings, and he was missing one of his front teeth. He greeted Bucky by spitting on the ground at his shoes.

"And in this corner, weighing one hundred sixty-two pounds, blasting straight out of Red Hook, James Buchanan Barnes." The crowd cheered again, a bit louder, Steve thought, adding his voice to theirs. He tried to catch Bucky's eyes, but his focus was entirely on the man across from him.

"Gentlemen, I'd tell you to fight clean but I know better. Just don't dirty up the ring too much or I'll make you stay and clean." The crowd chuckled. Richie stepped back and climbed awkwardly through the ropes of the ring, then down the small stairs that had been attached to the side. He'd gotten them fixed after all.

The bell rang, and Steve's breath got stuck in his throat as the two fighters broke into motion. Bucky bounced gently back and forth on his feet, like he'd shown Steve, ready to dodge. Cooper got closer, shuffling his feet, and threw a punch. Bucky sidestepped it easily and countered with an uppercut right into Cooper's ribs. He'd left them unguarded. Bucky's mouth curved into a grin, despite the mouth-guard and he looked out at the audience—glanced up, caught Steve looking down at him and grinned wider.

It distracted him.

Cooper's punch landed on Bucky's cheek, knocking his head back. He staggered a step and then Fred's other fist crashed into his gut. Bucky doubled over, breath knocked out of him as Cooper pressed forward. Steve's shout of alarm was drowned by the rest of the crowd. Cooper pulled his right arm back, and threw another strike, but Bucky blocked him, just barely. He raised his head, face pained and staggered back one more step. Steve's heart staggered with him. What if Cooper had broken something? What if Bucky had busted ribs, or worse?

But then Bucky lunged forward and brought his fist slamming up, straight up into Cooper's jaw. The impact knocked his head back, but Cooper's feet stayed rooted to the mat. Bucky didn't wait a second, whipped his left fist around in a hook, landing a punch to Cooper's ribs. The man started to fold over, but stopped himself, glaring down at Bucky with murderous rage. He snarled, face twisted in pain and then rushed forwards, like a bull charging. At the very last second, Bucky side-stepped, and Cooper crashed into the ropes, unable to slow himself.

#

The bell rang again and again, each round more vicious than the last, until the ninth, when Bucky and Cooper both started to tire. Steve decided it was time to get a closer look. He'd only drawn three sketches, two of them good enough to work with, but between the dim light and the adrenaline of watching the fight, he knew he wasn't going to accomplish anything better. Brenda gave him a knowing look when he stood and he nodded at her politely, then made his way down the stairs just as the crowd let out a sound—that mix of a hiss and an 'ooh' that tended to happen when one of the fighters took a hard blow.

Steve's heart pounded as he pushed his way through the throng of people. He started to maneuver forward, squeezing his way through the crowd until he found an opening, between two very tall but thin men. He caught a glimpse of the ring—only ten feet away. Bucky's back was turned towards him and Cooper was rushing forward, murderous rage in his eyes.

The thump of leather on flesh was far more audible from down on the floor. Steve flinched as Cooper's fist crashed into Bucky's midsection again and again, driving him against the side, until he was pinned against the ropes. Bucky's face twisted in pain, mouth distorting in a snarl and then he pushed himself free, shoving Cooper with his shoulder. He got enough distance between them to drive an uppercut into Cooper's torso and then landed a hook right after, smack into the taller man's cheek. Cooper's head snapped to the side and he staggered a step, then came back with a cross aiming right for Bucky's nose, but Bucky weaved out of the way quick, came right back up with another uppercut and socked Cooper in the jaw.

The bell rang and Bucky dropped his hands on Cooper's shoulders for just a second, staring at him a moment too long. The ref pushed them apart. Cooper blinked the sweat from his eyes and then headed to his stool, where a man was waiting for him with a towel and water. Bucky waited a moment longer, like he didn't feel like sitting, but then went to his stool where Richie whispered something into his ear. Steve couldn't hear him, but his expression was eager, and Bucky's was…dangerous.

The bell rang again and Bucky moved quicker than he had since the start, evading every punch Cooper threw and landing several blows himself. Cooper fell back against the ropes and Bucky pushed forward, slamming another hook into Cooper's ribs and another. Cooper's arms flopped at his side, Steve could see him trying to lift them up and failing. Steve knew that feeling, because he'd been there himself plenty. The man was exhausted. And Bucky was taking full advantage of it—he brought his arm back and landed a strong cross to Cooper's cheek, then an uppercut to the chin sending Cooper staggering back again.

Bucky was smiling, but there was nothing warm in his eyes. Steve had seen that look before—years ago, in the alley behind the butcher's shop when Bucky had pulled Mack Jenowsky off of Steve. Bucky was eyeing Cooper like a stray dog eyes a bone—hungry and violent. He waited for Cooper to lunge forward, shifted his body no more than an inch and slammed his fist into the taller man's nose straight on. Blood poured out, spilling onto the floor and fanning out into the air when Bucky pulled back his fist.

Cooper wavered, face twisted in pain. Another punch, this time a hook to the cheek, and Cooper was swaying on his feet, ready to keel over. All it would take was a stiff wind. Instead, Bucky drove an uppercut into Cooper's sternum, then followed it, whipcord quick, with a hook to his side. Cooper spun as he fell, in a drunken pirouette, and landed heavily on his side. He was out cold, eyes rolled back into his head.

A hush fell over the crowd, and Steve held his breath along with the rest of them. Bucky took a step closer to Cooper, leaned down a bit and for one horrifying moment, Steve thought he was going to bring his foot crashing onto the downed man's head, but instead Bucky just stepped over him.

The ref blew his whistle and hopped into the ring just as Bucky threw his fists into the air. "And the winner—James Buchanan Barnes!"

The crowd's cheers were deafening and Steve lost sight of Bucky as they rushed forward to congratulate him. Steve forced his way forward again, head lowered so he wouldn't get elbowed in the face, then finally pushed his way through to the ring and headed for the closest set of stairs.

Two men—Bucky's crew from the yard—shoved past Steve, nearly trampling him, and jumped into the ring to clap Bucky on the shoulder. But then the stairs were clear and Steve climbed them, grabbing hold of the ropes as soon as he could so he wouldn't get knocked down. "Hey, Buck!"

Bucky turned at the sound of Steve's voice, and waved.

Richie, already back in the ring, pushed his way through the small crowd inside, and shook Bucky's hand. He handed him a trophy of some sort. "I'll get your name engraved on it and everything," he said, "thought you might want to have it now."

Bucky grinned, showing blood-smudged teeth. "Thank you, sir." He held the trophy out to Steve. "Would you look at that?" It was a bronze boxing glove, with _1941 local champion_ printed on the plaque

"That's real nice, Buck," Steve said.

"Hell of a fighter," said Richie. "I was like that too in my youth." He grinned. "Shoulda bet on him, but that'd be against the rules."

Steve tried to think of something polite to say, but couldn't. His mind was still stuck on that look on Bucky's face just before the final punch, the cold fury and deadly force of his blows. The fight had felt personal, far more than a show or even a contest, not an exhibition, but like a longstanding personal beef just got settled.

Two men helped Bucky out of the ring, and the crowd on the floor closed in on him so quickly, Steve lost track of him again. The ring was empty except for Cooper and Doc Max, who was waving a jar of smelling salts under the man's nose. Steve's breath caught in his throat until Cooper woke with a sputtering cough. Doc Max helped him sit, wiped the blood dripping from his nose with a cloth.

"Steve!" Bucky called out. He was only a few feet away.

Steve's eyes landed on Bucky's. His cheek was shining red where Cooper had swiped at him, but he looked happy. Triumphant. He separated himself from the group clustered around him, pushed himself free and towards Steve.

"Congratulations," Steve said as he made his way back down the stairs. He cleared his throat and gave Bucky his best put upon face. "Champ."

"Damn right I'm a champ," Bucky's mouth twitched and he licked his lips. Steve caught a glimpse of torn flesh, maybe Bucky had bitten himself during the fight, despite the mouth guard.

"You took him down pretty hard, Buck," Steve said. He couldn't help himself. Didn't mean for the words to come out. Bucky was a good man, but that fight had been…something else.

"He had it coming." Bucky raised his chin.

"What'd he do?"

"Nothing yet," Bucky said. "And now he'll back off."

"Back off of what?" Steve asked.

"Barnes!" said Richie, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "Mighty fine out there tonight boy. Mighty fine." He grinned at Steve. "Your pal's got a real future as a fighter. Haven't seen a hook like that since Fritzie Zivic."

Bucky moved next to Steve, slung his arm around him. His gleaming skin was radiating heat and Steve felt himself start to sweat.

"You hear that Stevie? Don't gotta worry no more." Bucky switched his little trophy from one hand to the other. "I'll do the circuit, pick up fifty dollars a week, and we'll be gold."

Richie bellowed a laugh. "That's the spirit kid, just don't forget where you came from."

Steve tried to think of something to say, something clever or funny, but all he could think of was, "Good fight tonight."

"Yeah," Bucky scoffed. "Cooper's always telegraphed."

"You're a lot faster with him—I mean in the ring. You never...you've been holding back on me."

"Well yeah, I don't actually want to knock you out." Bucky quirked his lips. "Not usually, anyway.

"Barnes!" A voice yelled out, and then another, and then a whole group cheered behind them.

Bucky threw his arm around Steve and started moving towards the locker room. Everyone behind them followed.

#

Steve sat, watching, as Richie popped a bottle of champagne and handed it to Bucky, who drank before the bottle had stopped fizzing.

The crowd around him was mostly guys Steve recognized—only vaguely. The guys from the navy yard Bucky had vouched for: Perelli, Gregor, and a man with a mustache that made him look a bit like a walrus. "Barnes, you've got a fine future ahead of you," he said, loudly, over the noise of the crowd until they quieted. He was somebody important—Steve remembered having heard his name. Foster, maybe. "I expect you to thank me for putting you on the Hammerhead so often when you win the Golden Gloves."

Perelli whooped as he grabbed the champagne bottle and started to pour it on Bucky's head.

"What're you doing!" Richie yelled out. "That's top shelf stuff!"

"The only shelf you've got is the one below your register," somebody yelled.

"Yeah and that's my highest shelf!" Richie said back, grinning. "Maybe I can get a real shelf now, on the wall, after training a champion." He yanked the bottle away and threw his arms up in a cheer.

Steve smiled despite himself, watching them, and watching Bucky—that tension he'd carried for weeks had vanished. Like he'd gotten it out of his system by pounding Cooper to a pulp.

It was then that Bucky's eyes landed on Steve. "Stevie!" He shouted. "Come over here and celebrate!"

How could he say no? He drank a few sips from the bottle and started coughing up a storm when bubbles went up his nose.

With a hand on his back, Bucky leaned down close enough to ask, "You okay?"

"Fine," he said, once he caught his breath. "That stuff doesn't go down smooth."

Perelli slapped Bucky on the shoulder. "Let's take this to the tavern." He looked to Richie—not that your selection of drink isn't charming, my dear man, but sometimes a man just needs a good beer and some food."

"Right you are," Richie said.

"Excellent plan," Foster said. "First round's on me!"

The crowd whooped and Perelli pulled Bucky by the arm, away from Steve.

"At least give a man the dignity of a shower,” Bucky said, detaching himself.

"Since when do you care about how bad you stink?" Perelli asked.

Richie and Foster laughed loudly enough to drown out Bucky's answer.

They left one by one, and with them the noise, until only Bucky and Steve were left.

Steve wandered back to the shower stalls and grabbed his clothing, now mostly dry. He started to unbutton Bucky's shirt. "Thanks for letting me borrow your duds."

"Eh—don't mention it." With a tired shrug, Bucky made his way to the locker. He stripped out of his sweat-soaked shirt and Steve winced when he saw the marks on his sides, on his back. "That's gonna hurt in the morning," he said. Then, Bucky slid his pants off his hips, and Steve looked away, focusing on changing into his own pants. But Bucky's nakedness was magnetic, as usual, and so Steve settled for focusing on the back of his friend's neck, noting the small mole on the left side.

After stuffing his dirty clothes and the ones Steve had borrowed back into his locker, Bucky looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Hurts now." He grabbed a towel and his change of clothes. "But what's a little pain? Important part is, I taught Cooper some manners. At least for tonight." He turned around, bumped his locker door shut with his hip.

Steve resolutely did not look below Bucky's waist.

As he made his way to the shower, something slim and white slipped out of the clothing clamped under Bucky's arm and fell to the floor. An envelope.

Steve leaned down and picked it up. It was important looking, stamped _official business_. The sender was "Selective Service." The world seemed to stutter, and for a moment, Steve couldn't hear a thing over his thudding heart, but somehow his mouth moved, independent of his will. "You were drafted?"

But Bucky was already at the showers, standing under the spray. If he'd heard Steve, he'd ignored him.

Steve clutched the letter, turned it over, tempted to pull out the notice inside.

Bucky's words from yesterday and the day before—every day before—ran through his mind. _"Why do you want to go so bad?"_ It took a while for Steve's eyes to properly focus again on the envelope and they settled on the date stamp. The notice had been sent out over two weeks ago. Which meant, in all likelihood, Bucky had gotten this days ago. He'd known for days, and hadn't said a word about it to Steve.

Steve took a few steps towards the showers, towards Bucky and tried to think of something to say—anything.

Bucky's hands were pressed against the tiles, head hanging down.

Steve imagined at the moment—another, better version of him, the one that wasn't a coward—walking over to the shower, grabbing Bucky by the shoulders. He'd spin him around, look him in the eyes and say "I'm sorry," and "Take me with you," or "I'm right behind you. I'll follow you there. I won't give up until they say yes. I'll do push-ups every day, I'll run everywhere, I'll do anything," and "God I'm so sorry," and he'd kiss him, because the thought of not getting to do that—of never getting to tell him how he felt, was something he couldn't bear.

But instead, he stood where he was, fingers clutching the letter impotently.

The water shut off, Bucky grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his hips, then turned and stopped short when he saw Steve. He looked amused until he saw what Steve was holding. "Gimme that," he snapped, snatching it from Steve's hands.

It took Steve a few seconds to get his voice working again. He stayed where he was, back turned to Bucky, because it was easier that way, not looking him in the eyes. "You were drafted?"

Silence for a few seconds. Bucky slammed the locker door shut.

"When—" Steve forced himself to turn around. "When do you go in?"

"Tomorrow," Bucky said. He brought the towel to his hair, rubbed it back and forth a few times, eyes on Steve, and totally, eerily calm.

"Tomorrow," Steve repeated. He wanted to say something else, wanted to scream and demand to know why Bucky hadn't said anything, why Steve had found out by accident. It occurred to him that maybe Bucky had planned on not telling him at all, and that didn't make him angrier, exactly, but it made the curdling sensation in his stomach a thousand times worse. He sat down, lightheaded and miserable.

Bucky got dressed in silence, and this time Steve had no trouble keeping his eyes on the floor. He kept them there until Bucky left the locker room, without saying a word.

#

The air outside the gym was cool and still heavy with humidity. It was misting outside—not quite rain, but tiny little drops that the evening wind blew right into his face. Steve shut his eyes against the irritating spray, and nearly tripped over the huddled figure sitting on the bottom stoop. Bucky.

"Just gimme one more night," Bucky said without looking up at Steve. "One more night to pretend like everything's normal. Please."

Steve stepped down next to him, adjusted the strap of his drawing-case and sucked in a deep breath. His lungs hated the stale air in the gym; the night air felt like a balm. Bucky had been sitting out on the stairs long enough for his cap to be stained dark with rain. He'd waited out here, for him. "Okay."

Bucky stood and they walked in silence, all the way to Andy's Tavern.

#

Many hours later, by the time they got back to their apartment, it was pouring again. But Steve didn't care about getting wet anymore. He could barely _feel_ the rain anymore. He'd had far more to drink than he'd thought was possible, and had started to regret it even before they'd left. Bucky had put away easily twice as much, but was still smiling, and wasn't showing any signs of getting green around the gills like he had the one time they'd gotten into his old man's liquor cabinet and shared a bottle of Whiskey between the two of them, just to see what would happen. It ended in both of them vomiting all over the alley they'd holed themselves up in.

The room was tilting unfairly and Steve was doing his best to keep from thinking about how queasy he felt, but sitting down on the couch only seemed to make it worse. He unstrapped his drawing-case and set it on the floor, watching it roll on their uneven floor. He'd left the easel at the gym.

"You okay?" Bucky asked, nudging Steve's knee with his own as he walked past him into the kitchen and stripped off his soaked over-shirt. He wasn't wearing another layer underneath.

Steve fumbled with the buttons on his own shirt. "Fine, just…not so sure that last bourbon was such a good idea."

"Bourbon is always a good idea," Bucky said rolling his shoulders back. He clasped his hands together, turned the palms outward and stretched his arms.

Normally, Steve would have tried to ignore the curves of Bucky's biceps and triceps, the slope of his shoulders and chest, but not tonight—not after seeing what he could do with that strength, not after two—three bourbons. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"You're gonna make the couch all wet. Come on, let's get changed."

Steve hesitated, and then forced himself to follow. Bucky was right. He had to at least change his clothes before going to sleep, and the couch was his bed—always the couch, because it was the only thing he'd brought with him from his old apartment. It was his, and it was soft and boy was he tired.

Bucky was already in his drawers by the time Steve rounded the corner. He tossed his own wet trousers on the chair in the corner and stared.

They'd changed together before, plenty of times, and Steve, unbuckling his own pants, reminded himself that it was no big deal. They were roommates—maybe a little more like brothers, but that was all. So why couldn't he stop staring as Bucky pulled off his underwear? Why did his own hands stop by the waistband of his boxers? And why was his body reacting like—

"You want to draw me some more?" Bucky asked. He'd turned back around, and was watching Steve—eyes moving down to Steve's waist and lower. He took a step forward and Steve snapped out of his trance.

"S—sorry I'll let you get changed." Steve stuttered. He turned to the dresser and yanked open the top drawer, looking for his pajamas. Of course his pajamas were in the bottom drawer, his brain helpfully provided, as he dug through a heap of socks, his and Bucky's mixed together, just like everything in their lives. He went to crouch down, but Bucky grabbed him by the arm before he could, pulling on his wrist gently until he turned.

In the weak light of the bedroom table-lamp, Bucky's eyes were dark, and the press of his hand was warm against Steve's skin. Steve should've stepped away— he knew the alcohol and the night itself was messing with them both, but the look in Bucky's eyes was so wounded—a hurt so deep that Steve froze where he stood. "Bucky, I—I just want you to know that I—"

Bucky's lips pressed against his. His tongue pushed its way inside Steve's mouth and then Steve was kissing back. His arms wrapped around Bucky's waist and Bucky's hand slid from Steve's shoulder down to the small of his back. Steve pulled himself tighter against Bucky, marveling at the heat of his skin and the feel of his tongue, all of it leaving his thoughts a mess of fireworks and light.

Steve moaned and scratched his fingers against Bucky's back. His leg twined around Bucky's, and he found himself grabbing onto him like if he just held on tight enough nothing would ever change. It wasn't until Bucky winced that Steve remembered the bruises and the fight. He pulled back and looked down at where his fingers were resting—right over an angry purplish splotch trailing from Bucky's ribs all the way down to his hips. Steve leaned down and kissed the top of the bruise gently.

"Oh God," Bucky gasped. He put his hand on Steve's shoulder and pushed him back.

Confused, Steve looked up.

Bucky jerked away from him, stumbling backwards until his calves hit the end of the bed. He was looking at Steve with wild, frightened eyes.

But Steve felt no fear, only a need stronger than any he'd ever known. He climbed to his feet, crossed the floor and put his hands on Bucky's shoulders. With him sitting, and Steve standing, Bucky had to look up at him, for a change. "Tell me no and I'll stop," Steve said. His voice was steady, but his heart could put a jackrabbit's to shame.

With eyes clenched shut, Bucky shook his head. "I'll never say no to you."

Steve brought his hand to Bucky's chin, tilted it up.

"I don't want to leave Brooklyn," Bucky said. When he opened his eyes again, they were glassy. He leaned forward, and kissed Steve on the chest. "I want…" the words spilled out of him in between kisses as he worked his way up to the hollow of Steve's throat, sending goose-bumps down his spine. "I want to stay here. With you."

Steve dropped to his knees and kissed the edge of the bruise by Bucky's hip. Gently, Steve brought his hand between Bucky's legs. From above, he heard Bucky suck in a shaky breath.

Shifting his knees, Steve moved in between Bucky's legs and closed his mouth over Bucky's cock.

Bucky's hand found the back of Steve's head, carded his fingers through Steve's hair, as he made noises, pained and sweet.

Just as Steve started to lose himself in the rhythm, strong hands reached under Steve's arms and lifted him, pulling him up—onto the bed, on top of Bucky.

Straddling Bucky's hips, Steve leaned forward, pressing his hardness against Bucky's, rutting against him.

Bucky moaned and wrapped his hands around Steve's waist, pulling him in tighter as they writhed with each other.

Steve's heart ached. "I just want to go with you." He propped himself up on his arms, looked into Bucky's eyes—that mix of sin and fear—and kissed him again and again, until he started to drown.

#

The next morning, Steve woke up alone in the bed. It was chilly, and he pulled the blanket around himself tighter, still in a half-sleep state until he heard the water in the sink running just to his right—from the kitchen. And then he remembered. Bucky—Bucky's arms around him, his lips, the feel of him against his skin. He pulled the blanket up higher, curled his head down and tried to peek into the kitchen through the open crack of the bedroom door.

Bucky was making breakfast. He had the coffee going and was grabbing eggs out of the refrigerator.

Determined not to be a coward, Steve stood up, threw on a shirt and boxers and opened the door to the kitchen wider. "Morning."

Bucky froze for a moment, then rapped one of the two eggs he was holding against the frying pan, cracking it open. He did the same with the other egg, tossed both shells into the trash and then answered, "Mornin'."

"You uh…" Steve tried to think of something to say. "Sleep okay?"

Bucky gave him a look, grabbed the spatula and turned back to the pan.

Steve padded over to the living room and grabbed the quilt from the couch wrapping it around himself like a robe. Then he sat in his chair at the kitchen table and watched Bucky cook.

There was a red mark near the bottom of Bucky's neck—one Steve remembered making with his teeth. He brought his hand up to his own neck and felt the tenderness there, remembered how those bites had gone right to his cock. His stomach roiled with something he didn't know how to categorize. More details from the night before flitted through his brain—flashes of sense memory—the taste of Bucky's skin, the feel of his hips against his own, the weight of him as he straddled Steve, the heat of him and the sounds he'd made.

And now Bucky was going to leave. In a few hours he'd find out when he was shipping out—maybe today, maybe tomorrow, and Steve…really didn't want him to go. Not if he couldn't follow.

Bucky slid the fried eggs onto two plates and brought them over to the table, setting one down in front of Steve. He grabbed the loaf of bread from their breadbox and brought it over along with the bread knife and butter dish and sat across from Steve, still not looking him in the eyes.

Steve cut off two pieces of bread and set one on Bucky's plate.

Bucky sighed. "I'm a selfish prick."

"What? No you're—"

"So whatever happened last night, just—forget it."

"I—"

"You're gonna find a girl. A great one." He grabbed the butter knife and his slice of bread. "And you'll be happy."

"But I don't—" _don't want a girl. Can't imagine being happy without you. Don't go. Take me with you. Take me with you._

"I'll figure something out for later," Bucky said, as he took a bite of his bread. "We'll do something fun."

Assuming they didn't ship him out right away. That part was left unspoken, but Steve heard it nonetheless. They ate breakfast in silence, as Steve tried to think of something to say. But it was hard enough swallowing down bread and eggs past the lump in his throat.

#

"So where do you think they're gonna send you?" Steve asked as he followed Bucky into the bedroom to get changed.

"No clue." He grabbed a clean shirt from the dresser and slipped it on. "Never even gone further away then Jersey." He shrugged as he buttoned his shirt closed. "I always wanted to see Italy, but…I mean, this ain't exactly a vacation."

Steve slipped out of his sleep shirt and pants and put on a pair of slacks.

"Wish I could go with you," Steve said, as he pulled on an undershirt. "I know you're sick of hearing it, but—"

"I get it," Bucky said, "I do." He turned around and looked Steve in the eyes. "Some people aren't happy on the sidelines, and that's what you think this is, but I'm telling you, you're the lucky one. You get to stay here, live your life, and—"

"What _life_?" Steve snapped. "What about my life here, other than you, is even worth a damn?"

"What the Hell are you talking about?"

"You think this—any of this—makes me happy?" Steve's voice grew louder along with his growing anger. It was unfair—all of it—him getting left behind, Bucky being forced to leave—all of it. "You think anything I do here is gonna make a lick of a difference when we're at war?"

Eyes wide with shock, Bucky took a step back, lifting his hands. "Yes, I do. You've got a future here, and talent, and I'm so damn grateful that my number got called instead of yours, because me—I'm a dime a dozen, but you?" He shook his head. "You're meant for something better than cannon fodder."

"That what you are?" Steve asked. His stomach was twisting into whole new knots.

Bucky's mouth twitched, but he stayed quiet, then turned his back on Steve, kneeling down by the dresser. He opened the bottom drawer and rummaged around inside, then pulled out a small wooden cigar box. He stood back up and handed it to Steve. "Here."

The wood felt cold in Steve's hands. The lid had a small latch, which he pushed open with his thumb. Inside was a stack of five dollar bills, and a few tens. "What is this?"

"Last few rounds of boxing winnings, and everything I got from Pfister. Well—less two dollars, anyway." Bucky cleared his throat. "Should help with the rent for the next few months at least. And when it runs out, you go to my Ma, you hear me?"

It was all Steve could do to keep from taking the box and hurtling it against the wall. Instead he closed it, with trembling hands and set it down on the bed. Then he looked up at Bucky, smiled the coldest smile he could manage, and said, "Fuck you."

Bucky's expression crumpled and his eyes went glassy, but only for a second. Then he swallowed and turned his back on Steve again. "You can hate me all you want, but I'm not gonna need that where they send me. Wherever that is."

And Steve started shaking in earnest, angry tears welling in his eyes.

"They don't even use dollars over in Europe, can you imagine?" Bucky said, as he put on his belt.

Steve sat on the bed, next to the box and tried to take steadying breaths.

Even though Bucky kept his back turned to Steve, their mirror—worn as it was—showed Steve just enough of Bucky's reflection—the way his shoulders hitched, the way he swiped his knuckles against his cheek.

"Thanks," Steve said, voice so choked it was barely louder than a whisper. He ignored the burning in his eyes and went to the dresser to find a shirt for himself. Bucky gave him room, waited until he was done to grab the comb from atop the dresser.

"At least let me come to the enlistment office with you," Steve said, when he couldn't take the silence anymore.

"You've been there before, they'll recognize you."

"They see thousands of guys a day, they don't remember me."

"Don't be so sure." Bucky slapped Steve's cheek with the comb, lightly. "You're pretty unforgettable."

Steve watched Bucky comb his hair and considered. There were five recruitment centers in Brooklyn now. He could go to one he hadn't been to yet, if he caught the trolley. And he could probably make it back before Bucky was done. "Guess you're right," he said, buckling his belt. "Think we can catch a movie later?"

"Sure, pal. They have to let me out one last time." The joke fell flat. Bucky's smile was strained but hopeful. "What do you want to see?"

"New Superman short at the Loew's matinee. Don't remember what else is playing."

"Sounds like a plan. See you there. And if I'm late, wait for me, will ya?"

"Of course." _I'll always wait for you. Just wish you'd wait for me._

#

As he sat in the enlistment office waiting for his name to be called, Steve paged through the paper absently, pausing again on the page reviewing Bucky and Cooper's boxing match. The Eagle had picked one of Steve's portrait sketches of Bucky to run instead of the sketches he'd done the night of the fight—they'd picked a photo for the fight event itself. There was a disconnect between those two versions of Bucky—Steve's own fine lines, showing Bucky's kind eyes and the curve of his mouth. The photo showed Bucky throwing one of the many hooks that had connected with Cooper's face. Cooper's head was bent back, Bucky's eyes didn't have an ounce of kindness in them, and his mouth was twisted in a wolf's snarl. _"Great shot, ain't it?"_ Mr. Jenkins had said, grinning down at the photo. And Steve had stayed quiet, too confounded by the disparity between what he remembered seeing that night with his own eyes—the glory, the righteous anger and the ugly rage in the photo.

There wasn't an ounce of rage in Bucky now though, not even earlier in the morning when Steve had had enough rage for both of them. Bucky seemed more peaceful than he had in months. Some heavy burden finally lifted. Steve wondered if it was him.

He turned the page of the paper, read an article about another 4,000 lives lost, U-boats and battleships. There was a blurry photo of one that looked a lot like the USS North Carolina, only it had nearly twice as many anti-aircraft guns. He squinted to read the caption and muttered out loud. "Boy, a lot of guys getting killed over there."

"Rogers, Steven," called the enlistment officer.

"It kind of makes you think twice about enlisting, huh?" asked the guy next to Steve.

"Nope," Steve said as he folded the paper set it on his chair and headed to the front.

"Rogers," said the enlistment officer. He glanced up at Steve and frowned, then looked back down at his file.

This time, Steve had listed his Grandma's old address, which he figured counted.

"What did your father die of?" the officer asked. The questions never changed at the enlistment offices, only the faces.

"Mustard gas," Steve said. The questions never changed, but this time, the outcome would be different. It had to be. "He was in the 107th infantry. I was hoping I could be assigned—"

"Your mother?"

"She was a nurse in a TB ward. Got hit. Couldn't shake it."

The officer glanced down at the medical review the doctor in back had written up. Steve was relieved to see that the list of health issues looked shorter than last time. Not by much, but it looked more like a dozen than the twenty-five he'd counted on his last evaluation form.

"Sorry son," the officer said, arching an eyebrow.

"Look, just give me a chance."

"You'd be ineligible on your asthma alone."

Steve's pulse sped up, but he looked down at his toes, took a breath and reminded himself there were still other offices, more opening every day. He'd keep trying until they took him. But that didn't mean he was beyond pleading. "Is there anything you can do?"

"I'm doing it." He reached for his stamp. "I'm saving your life."

_Rogers, Steven. 4F._

#

Steve bought his ticket to the movie, not even half-surprised that Bucky wasn't outside waiting for him. They'd probably given him orders to ship out right away. He was probably at home, packing.

The movie showing began with a short news reel.

_"War continues to ravage Europe. But help is on the way. Each able-bodied man is lining up to volunteer."_

And on that screen there were men fighting valiantly against an evil so unspeakable it seemed almost unreal—but it was real. This was news—what was happening across the ocean. And if he could, he'd be there right beside them. He watched the soldiers on the newsreel, letting his eyes blur just enough until he could see Bucky's face on one of them. One of the men in the back looked smaller than the others, and he pictured himself there, fighting alongside them. But the screen changed again and his reverie ended.

The reel cut to a small boy with a piece of metal. _"Even little Timmy is doing his part collecting scrap metal. Nice work Timmy!"_

And that'd be Steve then, 4F that he was.

"Who cares," yelled a jackass from the row in front of Steve. "Play the movie already "

Steve felt his fists clench, and before he could stop himself he said, "Hey, you want to show some respect?"

_"Meanwhile, overseas our brave boys are showing the Axis powers that the price of freedom is never too high."_

"Let's go! Get on with it!" Jackass said, more loudly. "Hey just start the cartoon!"

"Hey you want to shut up?" Steve said, just as loudly. Enough was enough.

It may not have been his smartest moment, but that didn't make the point any less valid.

_"Together with Allied forces, we'll face any threat, no matter the size."_

Jackass rose to his feet and turned around, towering over Steve. Then he said, nice and quiet, smile full of daggers, "You're right. Let's not spoil the show for all these nice people. Let's take our discussion outside." He stepped out into the aisle and yanked on Steve's arm until he stumbled out, nearly losing his balance. They went through the exit door in front, to the complaints of the other patrons. Jackass shoved Steve towards the back alley wall, then punched him. Steve went down on his knees, but forced himself right back up, scrambling to remember Bucky's lessons. Fists up, elbows down, don't take your eyes off of—

Jackass landed another punch across his cheek before his hands even got all the way up, knocking Steve down again. He pulled himself up on the trashcan he'd landed next to, and grabbed for the lid, holding it in front of him like a sad tin shield. But jackass was huge, and he tore the lid out of Steve's hand easily, then pulled back for another punch.

 _Fists up, arms tight,_ but there wasn't enough time and as that meaty fist crashed into his face again, Steve thought again that maybe Bucky had been taking it easy on him the whole damn time, and that he had to have some serious words with him, because how was he supposed to learn how to fight like that? But right now he still had to deal with the meathead in front of him. He stood, vision blurring around the edges, and forced his fists back up.

"You just don't know when to give up, do you?" said Jackass.

"I can do this all day," Steve said, trying to position his feet like Bucky had shown him. He kept his elbows down, tried to keep his hands up and threw a hook, aiming for the bastard's smug smile. But the punch didn't land. Jackass grabbed his wrist and spun him around, sending him flying back down onto the ground. Steve's head slammed into the trashcan, and he swore he could feel a dent as his hand trailed down towards his bleeding, and probably broken nose.

"Hey! Pick on someone your own size," a voice said. Bucky's voice. And of course Bucky picked now to show up. At least he could see how well all those lessons had paid off. Steve wouldn't even have to tell him what a shitty teacher he was.

Steve pushed himself back up to his feet to the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Jackass grunting in pain.

"Sometimes I think you like getting punched," Bucky said, as he walked back over to Steve.

"I had him on the ropes," Steve said, and he tried to remember he was mad at Bucky—for his half-assed lessons, and for the night before, and for that morning, he wasn't even sure anymore. He wiped at the blood coming out of his nose, pushed against his forehead a bit. Anything to avoid Bucky's eyes for a few more seconds and then saw the paper on the ground. His selective service rejection: stamped for all to see. Steve Rogers: 4F

"How many times is this?" Bucky asked, as he glanced down at the paper, brow furrowed. "Oh, you're from Paramus now?" Bucky asked, eyebrow cocked. "You know it's illegal to lie on your enlistment form. And seriously, Jersey?"

Steve tried to come up with some wry response, maybe something about that girl Bucky had dated from Paramus and how he'd called it a 'fine town' the whole week and a half they were seeing each other, but then he saw Bucky—saw what he was wearing. A sharp looking army uniform.

"You get your orders?"

Bucky's expression grew sober, but only for a moment. Then he cocked his head back and gave Steve a half-smile. "The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow."

Steve nodded to himself, and tried to smile back at Bucky but found he couldn't even look him in the eyes. He stared at his lapels instead, at the cut of the uniform, and cold settled in his gut. He'd tried not to think about it—he really had, but he'd always known that this was how it would be. Bucky would get assigned and ship out, and Steve would be left behind. 4F. Not needed. Not useful. He forced down the lump in his throat and looked away, down at the cobblestone. Another drop of blood oozed sluggishly out of his nose, but he didn't bother wiping at it. Not much seemed to matter at that moment. "I should be going," Steve muttered, more to himself than anything else. Of course he couldn't even get himself to look up, let alone move. But he had to go—had to be somewhere else. And then he did look up, stupidly, helplessly, because God—tomorrow Bucky would be gone, and he had to at least look at him one more time, before—

"Come on," Bucky said, with a grin that was nearly convincing. He grabbed Steve by the shoulders and pulled him in close and Steve's heart felt like it was coming through his throat again. "My last night!" Bucky let go and looked Steve over. "I got to get you cleaned up."

"Why? Where are we going?" Steve asked, forcing his chin up. He could at least pretend not to be miserable, for Bucky's sake.

Bucky tossed Steve's rejection notice over his shoulder and held out a folded up newspaper. "The future."


End file.
